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AROUND  AN 
OLD  HOMESTEAD 

A  look  of  ilftttomB 


"By 
PAUL  GRISWOLD  HUSTON 

Author  of 
"An  Old-Fashioned    Sugar    Camp 
AND  Other  Dreams  of  the  Woods" 


CINCINNATI:     JENNINGS    AND    GRAHAM 
NEW      YORK;     EATON     AND      MAINS 


PREFACE 


THE    BARNYARD    GATE. 


jHIS  is  but  a  small  sheaf  among  many 
others;  for,  as  the  floor  of  the  woods 
is  covered  with  fallen  leaves  and  pieces 
of  detached  bark,  so  the  little  wood- 
land of  my  thoughts  is  strewn  over  with 
these  rough  fragments  and  memories. 
Yet  the  old  homestead  still  stands  as 
I  have  written  it.  There  is  no  latch- 
string.  It  is  always  open  to  receive  us. 
I  wish  I  could  say  that  I  have  in  this 
book  made  some  distinct  contribution 
of  my  own  to  the  appreciation  and  enjoyment  of  the 
beauty  of  life.  But  it  has  at  least  expressed  my  trying, 
and  the  intent  perforce  must  be  taken  for  the  deed. 

We  can  not  all  realize  in  our  individual  experiences 
the  life-thoughts  of  many  diverse  minds.  We  can 
have  but  one  attitude  toward  the  world.  I  should  feel, 
then,  at  least  repaid,  if  these  pages,  written  at  odd 
moments  among  the  fields  and  in  the  woods  and  be- 
fore the  open  fireplace,  and  again  beside  the  waters  of 
remembrance,  could  join  some  other  pilgrim  with  my- 
self, at  this  wayside  shrine,  in  the  worship  of  what  we 
shall  call  Nature,  the  beautiful,  and  the  things  of  the 
spirit. 


PAUL  GRISWOLD  HUSTON. 


Bevis,  Ohio, 

August,  1906. 


The  Old  Homestead,      .         .         .         . 

The  Open  Wood  Fire, 

The  Old  Muzzle- loading  Rifle, 

The  Barn,  .         .         .         .         . 

The  Woods, 

Squirrels  and  Squirrel  Hunting, 

Some  Thoughts  about  My  Dog, 

The  Orchard,     ----- 

Harvest,         ------ 

The  Papaw  Thicket,  -         -         -         - 

Nature  and  the  City,     -         -         -         - 

Nature  and  the  Problem  of  Suffering, 
The  Wood  Thrush  :   A  Sonnet,    - 
A  Prayer, 


Page 

39 
71 
76 

113 
190 
228 
241 
265 
286 
306 
333 
3^3 
364 


NOTE 

Nearly  all  of  the  illustrations  are  from  amateur  photo- 
graphs taken  expressly  for  this  book  by  Mr.  George  N.  Jen- 
nings, Mr.  James  W.  Young,  and  the  author,  but  of  these 
Mr.  Jennings  has  contributed  by  far  the  greatest  number.  I 
am  indebted,  however,  to  Mr.  Alexander  Thomson  for  the 
picture  entitled  "Man's  Best  Friend,"  to  Mr.  Lee  Harris 
Huston  for  "The  Squirrel  Hunter,"  and  to  Mr.  Ernest  Har- 
old Baynesior  "The  Gray  Squirrel."  Of  professional  pho- 
tographers, Mr.  Paul  Fleur  has  given  his  assistance  with  the 
frontispiece,  "Old  Spot  and  Her  Owner,"  and  "A  Country 
Lane,"  and  Mr.  A.  E.  Rosebaum  with  "The  Old  Fire- 
place." The  illustrations  are  believed  to  reproduce  faithfully 
many  of  the  typical  scenes  and  occupations  around  the  old 
homestead. 


LIST  OF 
ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Old  Homestead. Frontispiece. 

Page 

A  Grapevine  Festoon, 3 

The  Barnyard  Gate,          - 5 

The  Front  Entrance, 7 

A  Grapevine  Swing,   -        - 9 

The  Porch  by  the  Well, 15 

The  Rockery, 21 

"Wild  Flowers  and  Ferns,'' 22 

The  Bed  of  Red  Lilies, 23 

"Westward  Ho'" 27 

The  Parlor  in  Summer, 29 

"The  Old  Oaken  Bucket," 32 

"The  Decent  Church  that  Topped  the  Neighboring  Hill,"  34 

A  Gable, 36 

The  Old  Fireplace, 38 

The  Old  Sugar  Kettle, 39 

Split  Wood  Ranked  Up  in  the  Woods, 48 

The  Woodshed, 51 

The  Embers. -  69 

The  Old  Muzzle-loader, 71 


lO  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

The  Henry. 72 

Antlers  and  Powder-horn, 75 

Old  Dollie, 76 

The  Barn, -11 

The  Shadow  of  a  Cloud  (A  View  from  the  Barn  Door),       -         81 
The  Smokehouse,     ----------    84 

The  Old  Saddlebags, 85 

A  Drink  at  the  Trough,        --------     87 

"The  Cows  are  Coming  Home,"       ------         89 

Old  Spot  and  Her  Owner,     -        -        -        -----     91 

Pitchfork  and  Flail, -        -        -110 

A  Stretch  of  the  Woods,       -- 112 

A  Mossy  Log,      -        -        - 113 

"The  Vast  Cathedral  of  God's  Trees,"      -        -        -        -        -  115 

The  Road  Through  the  Woods,    -------       121 

"An  Abandoned  Path,"         --------  127 

The  Old  Rail  Fence,  --------       133 

"  Yonder  .   .   .  We  Can  See  the  Sugar  Cami',"   -         -         -         .  141 

A  Prostrate  Monarch, 146 

A  Seat  in  the  Forest,    ---------   147 

Twisied  Trees,  ....-----.        150 

United  Sycamores,  -..-----.  151 

"Along  the  Brooks  '•        ..------       153 

"The  Old  Home  Tree,"        --------  156 

A  Veteran  of  Three  Hundred,  ------        153 

"Wreathed  Pillars  of  Living  Green,"         -----  1(35 

Twin  Sisters,       ----------        167 

"The  Eyelashes  of  the  Forest,"  ......   jgg 

Iniiialsand  Hieroglyphics,         -------       i/x 

"The  Sunshine  Mottling  the  Leaves,"         -----   177 

Staghorns,  -----------        189 

The  Squirrel  Hunter,  ---------  190 

The  Gray  Squirrel,    -        - -        -        191 

A  Suuirrel's  Home,        ---------  227 

Man's  Best  Friend.    ---------        228 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  II 

Pagb 

Mac's  Collar,         -  238 

The  Orchard:  With  the  Vineyard   and   Farm  Buildings  in    the 

Distance, -       240 

Apple  Blossoms, 241 

Picking  Apples, 243 

The  Tulpehocken,  -        - 247 

The  Cider  Press, -         -       249 

"We    Can    Hang  Our    Scythe   Conveniently  in  Some    of  the 

Gnarled  and  Crinkled  Crotches, 255 

A  Bough  of  Apples, "        ■  264 

Sickles, '"       265 

In  the  Hayfield, "        "  267 

After  the  Load,  - ""       271 

"  Little  Brown  Jug,  Don't  I  Love  Thee!"         -        -        -        -274 

Cradling  Wheat, 275 

The  Old-time  Way, -..-  276 

Modern  Harvesting, -        -       277 

"  What  Shall  THE  Harvest  Be  ?" 278 

The  Harvest, 285 

Papaws,  with  a  Spray  of  Leaves, 286 

A  Papaw  Woods, 287 

Quite  a  Cluster  ! 290 

"  The  Wigwams  OF  THE  Forest," 293 

Papaw  Blossoms,     -        -        -        - 296 

A  Clump  of  Papaw  Leaves  and  Fruit,       -        -        -         -  305 

A  Country  Lane, -  306 

Country  Pastimes,      --------        -       307 

"  Where  are  the  Flowers,  and  Where  is  the  Grass?"  -  317 

Under  the  Blue,        -        -        -        .-.---       332 

A  Plundered  Nest,        -        -        - 333 

"  The  Lilies  OF  THE  Field," 362 

The  Wood  Thrush,        -       -         -------  363 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD 


"Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plent>'  cheered  the  laboring  swain, 
Where  smiling  Spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And   parting  Summer's   lingerings  blooms  delayed! 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease — 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  everj'  sport  could  please ! 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene!" 

— Goldsmith. 


U 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


"There  is  an  appearance  of  comfort  and  freedom  about  this  old  house 
that  renders  it  a  pleasing:  object  to  almost  every  eye.  .  .  .  The  charm  of 
these  old  houses,  which  are  marked  by  neatness  and  plainness,  and  by  an 
absence  of  all  pretension,  is  founded  on  the  natural  yearning  of  every 
human  soul  after  freedom  and  simplicity. 

—Wilson  Flagg. 

"But  I  'warrant  you  'd  find  the  old  as  snug  as  the  new  did  you  lift  the  latch. 
For  the  human  heart  keeps  no  whit  more  w^arm  under  slate  than  beneath 
the  thatch." 

— Alfred  Austin. 

I  HE  RE  are  few  more  picturesque  spots 
than  the  gently  rolling  country  of  south- 
western Ohio.  The  old  homestead  of 
which  I  write  nestles  quietly  among  its 
hills.  It  is  not  far  distant  from  the  his- 
toric Fort  Colerain,  or  Dunlap's  Station, 
as  it  was  sometimes  called,  on  the  bluffs 
of  the  Great  Miami,  where,  in  the  winter 
of  1790-91,  an  attack  was  made  on  the 
garrison  by  Indians,  led  by  the  renegade 
Simon  Girty,  and  a  detachment  of  soldiers  had  to  be 
sent  out  from  Fort  Washington,  on  the  Ohio,  to  their 
aid.  The  old  earthworks  of  the  fort  can  yet  be  dis- 
tinguished in  outline  from  the  highway  along  the  river. 
The  upward  slopes  across  the  stream  can  be  seen  very 
plainly  from  our  vantage  point;  and  it  is  one  of  the 
diversions  on  clear  days  to  observe  that  part  of  the 
country  through  a  field  glass,  and  pick  out  the  various 
farms,  and  speculate  upon  the  buildings  and  fields  that 
are  too  obscure  to  determine  definitely. 
2  IS 


THE  PORCH  BY  THE  WELL. 


l6  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

An  old  log  cabin,  double-roomed,  once  stood  near 
the  site  of  the  present  homestead,  in  pioneer  days,  and 
still  another,  for  temporary  occupancy,  while  the  farm- 
stead was  in  building.  It  was  in  the  former  of  these 
that  grandfather  kept  all  his  money,  hid  behind  a  loose 
chunk,  or  board,  in  the  attic.  There  was  a  little  square 
hole  left  in  the  logs,  on  the  ground  floor,  and  through 
this  the  children  used  to  peep  at  the  travelers  along 
the  highway.  A  path  led  out  to  the  road,  and  they 
crossed  the  fence  by  means  of  a  stile.  I  have  recon- 
structed the  old  cabin  in  my  thought,  surrounded  with 
roses,  and  with  its  clapboard  roof,  its  plowed-and- 
grooved  board  floor,  and  its  old-time  windows  (some 
of  the  pioneer  cabins  boasted  puncheon  floors,  and  had 
tanned  deerskins  for  the  panes),  and  I  know  of  one 
old  man  who  was  born  in  it  who  has  since  become  a 
lawyer  and  judge  in  a  great  city,  and  whose  practice 
has  extended  to  the  highest  tribunal  in  the  land,  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States  at  Washington. 

Most  of  these  log  cabins  of  the  early  settlers  have 
long  ago  been  superseded  by  more  substantial  struc- 
tures; but  the  attachment  of  their  descendants  to  these 
old  homesteads  has  generally  kept  them  in  possession 
of  the  family  line,  and  each  has  its  legends  that  go  back 
to  the  Indians.  My  grandfather's  was  located  in  a 
region  evidently  once  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  red  man. 
Flints,  even  now,  are  plowed  up  nearly  every  year. 
Indeed,  one  field  used  to  be  so  strewn  with  arrowheads 
that  we  thought  it  must  have  been  the  scene  of  a  battle, 
or  at  least  the  site  of  an  encampment. 

Starting  from  his  father's  farm,  some  few  miles 
away,   on  horseback,  with  his  money  in  silver  in  the 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD.  17 

saddlebags,  my  grandfather  came  to  this,  his  final  home, 
in  January,  1822,  almost  blazing  his  way  through  the 
woods;  and  here  he  began  the  hard  life  of  a  pioneer, 
felling  trees  and  opening  up  the  land  for  cultivation. 
His  father  had  settled  near  the  homestead  in  1795, 
not  long  after  Mad  Anthony  Wayne  had  gone  through 
these  parts  after  the  Indians,  having  come  from  Penn- 
sylvania to  the  Western  frontier  with  just  one  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  In  silver,  which  he  had  saved  from  the 
wreck  of  the  Continental  currency;  and  his  father  had 
been  a  soldier  in  the  Revolution,  and  gave  his  life  at 
the  battle  of  the  Brandywine.  He  (grandfather's 
father)  simply  followed  Wayne's  trail,  or  the  old  mili- 
tary road,  until  he  found  the  situation  he  wished,  and 
there  settled.  The  homestead  was  a  gift  to  his  son, 
for  the  old  gentleman  managed  to  leave  a  large  farm 
to  each  of  the  seven  children  that  survived  him;  and 
grandfather,  having  the  choice  of  two,  between  one  in 
the  bottoms  and  one  on  the  hills,  chose  this  on  the  up- 
land. In  later  years  grandfather  added  to  his  original 
patrimony  by  purchases  of  adjoining  tracts,  until  finally 
he  footed  up  the  grand  total  of  some  three  hundred 
and  sixty  solid  acres  of  some  of  the  best  farming  land 
in  the  county — one  hundred  acres  of  woodland,  and  the 
rest  in  pastures  and  tilled  ground. 

Grandmother  herself  had  in  1820,  at  the  age  of 
seventeen,  along  with  others,  made  the  long  trip  in  a 
prairie  schooner  from  far-off  New  Jersey,  in  the  dead 
of  winter,  cooking  her  meals,  as  did  the  rest,  by  open- 
air  fires  all  through  the  snow-clad  Alleghanies.  She 
came  with  memories  of  how  her  mother,  when  once 
in  attendance  as  a  young  girl  at  Commencement  Day 


1 8  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

at  the  College  of  New  Jersey,  at  Princeton,  had  been 
assisted  up  the  steps  of  Nassau  Hall  by  no  less  a  per- 
sonage than  General  George  Washington  himself,  who 
was  present  on  the  occasion,  and  whom  the  ladies  had 
honored  with  garlands  of  roses;  reaching  here  finally. 
In  the  frontier  West,  to  become  the  wife  of  a  pioneer 
farmer.  Far  back  there  in  New  Jersey,  too,  shortly 
after  the  War  of  i8 12,  at  a  tavern  where  grandmother 
was  once  visiting,  a  coach  had  stopped  before  the  door, 
and  a  lady  had  alighted  from  it  for  her  dinner — a  lady 
who  was  on  her  way  to  Philadelphia  to  meet  her  hus- 
band, General  Winfield  Scott,  who  had  just  acquired 
fame  at  the  battle  of  Lundy's  Lane,  near  Niagara. 
The  family  had  come  West  four  years  before  grand- 
mother came,  but  her  mother  had  missed  the  girl,  and 
so  sent  her  brother  and  a  neighbor  far  back  towards 
the  ocean,  for  her  to  leave  home  and  kindred  and  join 
fortunes  with  them  in  the  West  beyond  the  mountains. 
And  it  was  that  same  girl  who,  years  afterward,  once 
stood  a  whole  squad  of  soldiers  at  bay,  while  she  pro- 
tected her  property  and  demanded  back  the  young  horse 
which  they  had  taken,  because  it  belonged  to  her  son, 
who  was  fighting  for  the  Union  in  the  war. 

Now  grandfather  himself  was  quite  a  hero-wor- 
shiper. They  would  flatboat  their  grain  and  other 
produce  to  New  Orleans  in  pioneer  days,  imd  be  gone 
a  month  or  over;  and  on  the  return  on  horseback 
overland  through  the  Indian  nations,  and  through  Mis- 
sissippi, Tennessee,  and  Kentucky,  grandfather  once 
saw,  just  below  the  city  of  Nashville,  General  Andrew 
Jackson,  who  bowed  and  spoke  to  him  on  the  wayside. 
Jackson  had  a  colored  servant  with  him.  When  the 
party   reached   Nashville   and  learned   it  was   actually 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD.  1 9 

Jackson  they  had  seen,  they  felt  like  going  back  to 
meet  him  again;  for  no  mere  passing  salutation  would 
have  sufficed  to  show  their  loyalty  to  the  general. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  hordes  of  Indians  have 
threaded  the  woods  that  once  covered  all  the  land  on 
which  the  old  homestead  now  stands.  It  has  been  one 
of  the  traditions  hereabouts  that  an  old  Indian,  of  the 
Miamis,  and  not  so  many  years  ago  at  that,  used  to 
come  back  and  visit  certain  families — especially  those 
of  hunting  proclivities — and  stay  again  for  a  while 
among  the  scenes  and  hills  that  he  had  loved  so  well. 

After  the  wedding,  on  January  15,  18^22,  grand- 
father took  his  wife  in  front  of  him  on  horseback,  and 
they  thus  made  their  honeymoon  together  to  the  cabin ; 
and  there,  and  in  the  homestead,  they  lived  together 
for  over  fifty  years.  My  father,  when  a  lad  but  eight 
or  ten  years  old,  until  the  country  was  opened  up,  fol- 
lowed, in  company  with  his  sister,  a  blazed  trail  made 
by  grandfather  through  a  woods  three  miles  to  school ; 
and  it  was  a  dark  and  lonesome  trip,  with  the  experi- 
ence, too,  of  occasionally  getting  lost,  while  the  reports 
of  panthers  traveling  westward  at  the  time  made  the 
danger  seem  much  greater.  Mush  and  milk  was  a 
common  diet;  and  the  boys'  clothes  in  grandfather's 
time  used  to  be  homespun,  made  of  wool  sheared  from 
his  own  sheep,  which  he  drove  down  and  washed  in 
the  river,  four  miles  away.  The  fleece  was  made  into 
rolls  at  the  carding  mill  down  by  the  river,  and  then 
spun  into  thread  by  grandmother  at  the  homestead,  and 
finally  woven  into  patterned  cloth  for  them  at  the 
fuller's.  Grandmother  used  to  spin  flax  also,  and 
trousers  and  coats  were  made  of  the  tow  for  the  boys. 
All  the  blankets  on  the  farm  were  of  home  manufac- 


20  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

ture,  and  she  knitted  their  own  socks.  Grandmother 
herself  would  ply  the  wheel,  with  its  distaff  and  spindle, 
and  sing  the  ballad  of  "Barbara  Allen"  and  the  other 
tunes  of  long  ago.  It  is  not  often  that  an  old-time 
spinning  wheel  is  seen  nowadays,  at  least  in  operation. 
The  one  used  by  grandmother  is  still  kept  at  the  home- 
stead, as  a  sort  of  relic,  or  reminder,  of  the  days  that 
have  gone.  Their  life  seems  free  and  beautiful,  as  we 
look  at  it,  in  those  olden  days.  I  think  of  Priscilla 
and  John  Alden.  Yet  theirs  was  but  one  of  numerous 
other  such  pioneer  experiences  out  here  in  the  Western 
wilderness. 

The  house — like  "Clovernook,"  and  not  far  from 
it — was  built  of  bricks  made  from  clay  dug  on  grand- 
father's own  land,  a  stone's  throw  from  the  site  of  the 
building.  Oxen  turned  the  great  poles  and  wheels  In 
the  mixing.  They  were  large  bricks,  of  the  old-fash- 
ioned kind;  and  the  foundation  walls,  too,  came  from 
the  farm,  and  the  lumber  for  the  woodwork,  and  the 
big  rough  stones  that  flag  the  porches'  entrances. 
Grandfather  had  his  own  lime  kiln,  and  burnt  the 
stones  from  the  brook  for  the  lime  for  his  mortar. 
The  date  of  the  erection,  1834,  was  graven  on  the 
lintel,  above  the  doorway — not  so  very  ancient,  it  is 
true,  but  still  far  enough  back  to  leave  an  atmosphere 
of  romance  and  old-time  ways  lingering  about  the  place 
and  curling  up  in  the  fragrant  wood-smoke  from  the 
chimneys.  Threads  of  poetry  twine  about  it  with  the 
woodbine  which  clambers  over  the  walls  and  waves  its 
sprays  across  the  windows.  Within  Its  Ivy-mantled 
sides  one  may  get  a  glimpse  of  the  older  generations 
and  their  life,  now  almost  passed  away.  The  old  home- 
stead Itself  seems  almost  a  thing  of  the  past,  so  linked 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


21 


are  all  its  associations  with  the  times  of  sixty  years 
ago.  There  is  an  atmosphere  of  age  about  it  which 
makes  it  exceedingly  restful  in  these  rushing  times  of 
to-day.  It  is  like  a  cool,  mossy  spring  beside  a  dusty 
road. 

We  can  see  it,  as  we  approach,  by  the  tops  of  the 
spruces,  or  the  big  black  walnut  out  by  the  gate.  The 
place  is  surrounded  with  evergreens  and  maples,  and 
there  was  a  large  hemlock  at  one  time  near  a  summer- 
house  bowered  in  roses.  Two  enormous  Mayduke 
sweet  cherry-trees  formerly  grew  in  the  front  yard,  one 
with  great  expanding  limbs,  like  an  oak,  and  with  a 
trunk  diameter  of  close  to  thirty  inches — the  wonder, 
and,  in  cherry  time,  the  envy,  of  all  who  saw  it. 
Myrtle  spreads  beneath  the  spruces;  two  dogwoods, 
planted  years  ago,  blow  masses  of  white  in  springtime; 
petunias  and  roses  paint  the  walks;  hollyhocks  border 
the  buildings;  nasturtiums  nod  and  sprangle  in  the 
rockery;  wild  flowers  and  ferns  from  the  woods  droop 
and  play  in  under  the  cedars;  and  a  bed  of  red  lilies 
colors  the  way  to  the  garden.     With  its  broad  open 


THE    ROCKERY. 


22 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


lawn,  'tis  a  place  for  archery;  a  spot,  too,  for  box- 
wood hedges  and  a  sundial.  Croquet,  however,  has 
had  its  innings  as  the  favorite  outdoor  amusement,  and 


"wild  flowers  and  ferns.' 

many  a  stiff  game  of  quoits  has  been  pitched  across 
the  sward  with  horseshoes. 

Waxwings  build  their  nests  amid  the  cedar  boughs 
that  brush  the  house;  a  bluebird  yearly  has  its  home  in 
the  hollow  limb  of  a  dead  sweet  cherry;  the  little  nests 
of  song  sparrows  are  well  concealed  there  among  the 
blackberries;  and  English  sparrows  chirp  and  twitter 
about  the  eaves,  and  long  straws  from  their  nests  hang 
from  the  corners.  In  the  days  cardinals  and  robins 
and  many  other  beautifully  colored  birds  come  whis- 
ling  and  fluting  about  it;  toward  nightfall  swallows 
dart  and  soar  above,  and  bats  flutter  and  girate  to  and 
fro,  while  katydids  rasp  away  in  the  maples,  and  the 
crickets  drone  out  in  the  fields;  and  later,  in  the  dusky 
places,  the  whip-poor-wills  and  screech  owls  cry,  while 
round  about  whispers  the  never-ending  soughing  of  the 
pines  and  spruces. 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


23 


Formerly  great  flocks  of  wild  pigeons  used  to  fly 
over  the  farm,  sometimes  even  darkening  the  sun  in 
their  flight — pigeons,  pigeons  everywhere,  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach.  Wild  turkeys  piped  through  the 
woods,  and  wolves  came  up  back  of  the  barn  at  night 
and  howled.  But  these  have  all  gone,  and  it  is  a  rare 
thing  nowadays  to  see  even  a  single  little  flock  of  a 
dozen  wild  pigeons,  and  the  people  remember  the  year 
when  they  see  them. 

Around  upon  the  estate  are  various  orchards — 
apples,  pears,  quinces,  apricots,  peaches,  cherries,  plums; 
and  many  kinds  of  berries — strawberries  (of  which, 
't  was  said,  so  tells  old  Izaak  Walton,  that  "doubtless 
God  could  have  made  a  better  berry,  but  doubtless 
God  never  did"),  red  and  black  raspberries,  black- 
berries, and,  some  time  past,   a  patch  of  dewberries 


THE    BED    OF    RED    LILIES. 


24  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

and  one  of  currants.     On  a  hillside  gently  sloping  from 
the   house   innumerable   clusters   of  white    and   purple 
grapes  hang,  luscious  and  sweet,  beneath  the  sheltering 
shade  of  the  broad  green  leaves  of  the  vineyard.     Pas- 
tures flank  the  roadsides,  and  fields  of  clover,  wheat, 
and  corn,  where  golden  pumpkins  dot  the  brown  earth 
Nin  the  autumn.     A  large  woods  serves  as  a  wind-break 
/'  toward  the  West,  and  its  masses  of  dark  foliage  and 
,  the  antlered  tips  intensify  and  prolong  the  beauty  and 
\ mystery  of  the  slow-dying  sunsets. 

I  think  of  Horace  on  his  Sabine  farm.  Sometimes, 
too,  as  I  look  at  it,  I  think  of  Hawthorne  and  the  old 
manse.  'T  is  an  ideal  life — otium  cum  dignitate. 
What  more  could  one  wish? 

The  homestead  is  one  of  the  few  old  places  now 
left  in  this  vicinity.  Almost  all  the  others  have  become 
too  modernized.  But  it  is  not  like  our  modern  houses. 
It  has  never  been  rented;  and  the  people  who  live  in 
it  have  never  moved.  So,  although  not  far  from  the 
city,  the  homestead  is  suggestive  always  of  old-time 
memories  and  old-time  customs,  and  affords  one  of  the 
unusual  opportunities,  nowadays,  where  we  can  see 
old-time  ways  still  practiced,  the  wheat  cradled,  the 
maple  sap  boiled  in  kettles,  soft  soap  made  from  the 
wood  ashes,  and  the  open  fire  in  the  sitting-room. 

During  one  season  ("befo'  de  wah")  as  many  as 
one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  hogs  were  driven  past 
along  the  turnpike  down  to  the  city  of  Cincinnati,  at 
that  time  the  great  pork  market  of  the  country.  The 
old  homestead  became  a  sort  of  tavern  at  such  times, 
and  the  drovers  used  to  stop  over  night.  The  road 
would  become  all  ruts  and  wallows.     But  all  that  has 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD.  25 

changed,  too,  with  the  years,  and  the  extension  of  rail- 
road facilities  and  the  opening  of  the  many  other 
Western  packing-houses  have  sadly  diminished  the  great 
droves  of  hogs;  yet  even  I  can  remember  more  than 
once  seeing  the  turnpike  black  with  droves  containing 
several  hundred,  and  great  herds  of  lowing  cattle,  and 
flocks  of  hundreds  of  sheep  as  well,  panting  and  bleat- 
ing along  on  their  way  to  the  stockyards. 

How  many  memories  there  are  that  thus  cluster 
about  an  old  house !  The  customs  and  loves  of  years 
ago  are  there — 1834.  The  old  people  now  living  in 
it  can  tell  of  incidents  that  occurred  in  the  first  cam- 
paign of  Martin  Van  Buren ;  and  the  recollections  of 
the  aunts  go  back  even  further,  to  a  time  when,  as  little 
girls,  they  had  listened  to  the  tales  of  a  neighbor,  an 
old  woman  then,  who  was  the  daughter  of  a  soldier 
of  the  Revolution.  She  had,  as  a  child  in  New  Jersey, 
baked  loaves  of  bread,  very  long,  large  loaves,  for  the 
American  soldiers;  and  once,  when  fired  upon  by  the 
British,  she  had  jumped  over  a  fence,  and  had  fallen 
as  if  dead,  and  had  then  been  left  there  by  them.  The 
old  homestead,  as  I  have  said,  is  also  itself  practically 
on  the  site  of  a  log  cabin  built  in  pioneer  days,  and  the 
well  in  the  yard  dates  back  to  the  earliest  settlements 
in  the  Miami  Valley,  It  has  never  been  rewalled,  and 
its  moss-covered  stone  sides  still  contain  the  sweetest, 
best  of  sparkling  water  in  the  world.  When  we  hear 
these  tales,  and  think  of  these  associations  with  the  past, 
it  stirs  our  blood,  and  it  is  almost  as  if  we  were  our- 
selves thus  joined  in  a  way,  and  link  by  link,  to  the 
very  origin  of  the  Republic. 

Afar  off,  at  certain  times,  I  used  to  (and  can  yet) 


26  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

hear  faintly,  floating  up  in  sweet  mellow  tones,  the 
deep  whistles  of  the  big  river  steamers  on  the  Ohio, 
fifteen  miles  away;  and  in  the  distance,  again,  across 
the  rolling  hills,  on  still  days,  could  be  heard  the  rumble 
and  tooting  of  the  train  on  its  way  toward  the  North. 
I  used  to  think  it  one  of  the  wildest  places  possible 
upon  such  occasions.  It  seemed  as  if  we  were  remote 
and  isolated  from  the  whole  world,  and  I  enjoyed  it. 

There  is  a  large  picture  in  the  sitting-room,  which 
long  ago  excited  my  imagination,  entitled  "Westward 
Ho!"  A  pioneer  has  just  returned  from  a  hunt,  and, 
coming  into  his  lean-to  hut  with  his  game — a  deer 
slung  over  his  pony's  back,  and  a  raccoon  and  opossum 
and  some  wild  turkeys  lying  on  the  ground — stands 
leaning  on  his  long  muzzle-loading  rifle  surveying  the 
scene,  while  his  wife  looks  up  admiringly  into  his  eyes. 
His  oldest  boy  is  taking  the  deer  from  the  horse;  the 
children  are  playing  about  a  spring  of  water;  and 
supper  simmers  over  the  open  fire  beside  the  spring. 
A  river  winds  its  way  not  far  distant  among  the  hills. 
An  improvised  shack  is  the  home,  with  a  roof  of  bark. 
The  whole  picture  set  the  wild  blood  and  love  of  ad- 
venture aglow  in  me,  and  I  quivered  for  the  life  of 
the  forest.  It  seemed  to  me  then,  in  my  young  boy- 
hood days,  and  still  seems,  as  I  look  upon  it,  the  sym- 
bol of  all  that  is  independent  and  adventuresome  and 
truly  American.  It  speaks  of  the  wild  life  that  used 
to  be  when  the  forests  were  here  upon  every  hill,  and 
when  Audubon  could  stop  for  the  night  and  kill  a  wild 
turkey  for  supper  at  almost  any  point  along  the  Ohio. 

There  used  to  be  another  picture,  in  the  dining- 
room,    which    not    only    excited    my    imagination,    but 


w 
H 

> 

C 

X 

o 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


29 


aroused  all  my  patriotism  when  still  young.  It  repre- 
sented the  early  Revolutionary  days.  A  soldier  on 
horseback,  with  a  drum,  had  hurriedly  come  to  a  settler 
in  the  fields,  to  announce  the  war  and  to  ask.  for  volun- 
teers. The  farmer  was  leaving  his  team  and  his  plow 
at  the  call  of  his  country,  and  one  or  two  others  were 
hurrying  up  also  with  their  guns.  I  suppose  it  was 
meant  to  suggest  Lexington  times,  but  I  used  secretly 


THE  PARLOR   IN  SUMMER. 


to  hope   also  that  perhaps  the   patriotic   farmer  was 
really  General  Putnam  himself. 

The  big,  cool  double  parlor,  as  well  as  the  sitting- 
room,  has  a  huge  open  fireplace  at  each  end,  In  front 
of  which,  when  unused,  lie  deer  horns  and  various 
shells.  Heavy  wide-opening  doors  separate  the  two 
rooms  in  the  parlor  from  each  other  when  wished. 
Grandfather  and  grandmother  celebrated  their  golden 
wedding  in  this  room,  and  on  its  walls  are  the  family 


30  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

portraits,  all  in  a  frame  together,  taken  at  the  time  of 
the  golden  wedding,  no  one  yet  having  passed  over  the 
border,  and  the  oldest  of  the  ten  being  then  within  a 
year  of  fifty. 

Beneath  the  parlor  is  the  cool  brick  cellar,  with  its 
tables  set  with  crocks  of  milk  and  cream,  and,  in  their 
season,  bins  of  apples  and  potatoes,  pumpkins  and 
squashes,  barrels  of  cider,  and  demijohns  of  wine  fresh- 
crushed  from  the  grape. 

Old-fashioned  silhouettes  hang  on  the  walls,  or  rest 
on  the  bureaus,  along  with  several  mottoes.  The  pic- 
ture frames  and  mantelpieces  are  adorned  with  branches 
of  beautiful  scarlet  leaves  in  autumn,  and  perhaps  a 
short  twig  with  a  humming-bird's  nest  will  be  laid  on 
a  bracket.  A  tall  clock  used  to  stand  in  the  corner 
of  the  sitting-room,  by  the  stairway. 

In  the  rooms  above  are  family  trees,  made  in 
wreaths  from  the  hair  of  the  different  members  for 
generations,  taken  from  the  locks  of  every  relative, 
far  and  near.  In  one  of  the  front  chambers  are  still 
to  be  seen  four  large  iron  hooks  in  the  beams  of  the 
ceiling,  on  which  hung  the  quilting  frames  of  years 
ago.  Here,  during  the  days,  were  held  merry  quilting 
parties;  and  at  night  the  frames  were  again  pulled  up 
and  fastened  to  the  hooks,  so  that  the  beds  underneath 
could  be  used.  The  piles  of  brightly  patched  quilts, 
in  their  old-fashioned  patterns  (such  as  Rising  Sun, 
Jacob's  Ladder,  Log  Cabin,  Irish  Chain,  and  Path  in 
the  Wilderness — all  pioneer  names),  folded  away  in 
the  closets,  attest  the  frequent  use  of  these  hooks. 

The  old  well  is  on  the  crest  of  a  ridge,  and  that 
ridge,  a  very  wide  one,  where  also  stands  the  home- 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD.  3 1 

stead,  is  the  highest  point  of  land  in  a  stretch  of  forty 
miles.  The  well  curb  has  been  banked  up  on  the  out- 
side somewhat,  making  a  little  rise  in  the  ground,  so 
that  there  is  a  slight  slope  on  all  sides  from  the  open- 
ing. This  and  the  fact  of  its  having  been  dug  on  the 
top  of  a  ridge  prevent  any  surface  water  from  filter- 
ing through  immediately  into  the  well,  except  in  very 
heavy  rains;  and  it  consequently  has.  In  summer  and 
winter,  autumn  and  spring,  the  same  sweetness  and 
purity  of  taste — the  very  best  water  I  have  ever  drunk, 
from  wells,  springs,  brooks,  or  rivers,  in  all  the  six- 
teen States  in  which  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  drink 
water.  I  have  never  found  any  water  even  at  all 
approaching  it  except  at  a  well  some  miles  away,  and 
that  must  have  come  from  the  same  vein;  and  when 
the  water  is  drawn  from  the  northeast  corner  of  the 
old  well,  in  a  genuine  "old  oaken  bucket,"  I  believe 
nothing  on  earth  can  equal  It. 

This  well  Is  known  to  be  at  least  one  hundred  years 
old.  It  was  here  when  grandfather  first  saw  the  place, 
and  the  land  had  changed  hands  twice  before  that. 
The  walls  have  never  been  renewed — It  has  never  been 
necessary  to  rewall  It — and  the  stones  are  covered  with 
rich  green  mosses,  dripping  and  sparkling  and  beau- 
tiful. Grandfather  thought  he  would  make  a  new  wall 
some  time,  but  It  is  left,  nevertheless,  with  its  curiously 
curved  sides,  just  as  It  was  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
except  that  we  have  a  new  well  curb.  It  is  about 
twenty-five  feet  deep,  and  many  a  cup,  or  bucket,  or 
hat,  let  fall  by  young  or  careless  hands,  has  had  to 
be  dragged  out  of  it  with  the  grappling  hooks..  I  lov-e 
to  look  down  into  its  cool,  black  depths.  A  drop  from 
3 


32 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


a  spray  of  moss  falls  with  a  bell-like  tinkle,  and  con- 
centric rings  spread  from  its  center,  causing  the  surface 
of  the  water  to  shiver  and  dance  in  diminutive  wavelets 
rippling  lightly  from  one  side  to  another.     Here,   at 
least,  whether  in  harvest-time  or  when    snow  is  drift- 
ing, one  can  always  have  a  cup  of  the  water  of  life 
(shall  we  say?),  clear  as  crystal,  icy-cold,  and  as  sweet 
as  the  sap  which  falls  from  the  maples.     One  end  of 
the  windlass,  which  is  nearly  as  old  as  the  well,  is  as 
smooth  as  glass,  worn  through  long  years,  and  showing 
the  grain  of  the  wood  as  if  oiled,  where  we  have  held 
our  hands,   as  a  sort  of  brake,   in   letting  the  bucket 
descend  rapidly,  instead  of  slowly  turning  the  handle, 
thus  causing  it  to  plunge  at  last  with  a  ketchunk!  below 
the  surface,  to  rise  again  in  a  shower  of  spray.     Many 
a  stranger,  staying  for  a  time  to  rest  in  the  shade,  has 
been  grateful  for  the  refreshing  draught  it  gives.     It 
has   become   quite   famous   for   its 
water,  having  been  there  during  the 
cabin    days,    and   travelers    always 
have  stopped  beside  it. 

Sparrows  sit  on  the  edges  of  the 
long  carrying  trough  (made  out  of 
a  tree)  that  leads  from  the  well, 
and  dip  their  bills  in  the  water  as  it 
courses  past  them,  while  in  the  big 
receiving  watering  trough  at  the 
other  end  the  horses,  cows,  calves, 
and  chickens,  and  all  the  animals 
on  the  farm  except  the  hogs  slake 
their  thirst,  and  plunge  their  noses 
deep  into  the  crystal  pool,  or 
'the  old  oaken  bucket." 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD.  33 

cool  themselves  by  letting  the  stream  come  gushing 
against  their  chops  as  they  drink.  How  they  love  it ! 
I  have  heard  that  horsehairs,  plucked  from  the  horses' 
tails  without  others'  knowledge,  have  been  turned  (curi- 
ously!) into  long,  thin,  wriggling  snakes,  if  allowed 
to  remain  in  the  big  trough  for  a  certain  secret  period. 
There  was  always  something  about  the  old  trough  that 
had  considerable  mystery  to  it. 

Samuel  Woodworth  has  immortalized  himself  in 
but  one  well-known  poem,  "The  Old  Oaken  Bucket," 
but  that  sweet  and  rustic  refrain  has  made  many  a  heart 
happier  and  better  in  the  memory  of  the  delicious 
draughts  of  childhood.  Who,  too,  that  ever  lived  in 
the  country,  can  not  repeat  the  lines  with  Woodworth, 
and  say, 

"  How  sweet  from  the  green,  mossy  rim  to  receive  it, 
As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips! 
Not  a  full,  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 
The  brightest  that  beauty  or  revelry  sips." 

I  think  that  no  better  poem  was  ever  written  upon 
country  life. 

Indeed,  the  favorite  songs  of  the  place  have  always 
been  after  the  order  of  "The  Old  Oaken  Bucket," 
itself  perhaps  the  most  enjoyed;  such  as  "My  Old 
Kentucky  Home,"  "Sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt,"  "Annie 
Laurie,"  and  "Auld  Lang  Syne,"  with  "Old  Folks  at 
Home,"  "Blue  Bells  of  Scotland,"  "Dixie,"  and  "Robin 
Adair"  as  close  seconds.  In  the  olden  days  four  of 
the  seven  boys  of  the  family  (there  were  three  girls 
also)  formed  a  drum  corps  of  their  own — two  fifes, 
a  rattling  tenor  drum,  and  a  booming  bass — and  strolled 
the  country  round  about  at  times  as  the  peerless  and 


34  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

envied  rivals  of  every  other  band  of  wandering  min- 
strels. 

The  old  homestead  and  the  hamlet  remind  me  of 
Goldsmith's  poem, 

"  Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain." 

Ah,  so  it  is!  Yet  I  am  reminded  also  of  the  "Elegy" 
by  the  myrtle  covered  cemetery  amid  the  evergreens, 
where, 

"  Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep  " — 

and  by  the  barn,  and  the  swallows,  and  the  beautiful 
evenings,  and  many  other  things  as  well,  of  that  fine 
old  inspiration  of  Gray's.  But  things  have  changed. 
The  village  does  not  now  have  quite  the  old-time  aspect 
that  once  it  had.  The  old  families  have  nearly  all 
passed  away,  new  ones  have  come  in  with  their  modern 
houses,  the  woods  have  pretty  well  been  cut  down,  even 
the  familiar  faces  have  become  altered.  Only  a  mem- 
ory remains  (but  'twill  linger  for  aye)  of  what  the 
village  once  so  poetically  stood  for  in  my  boyhood. 
The  spirit  of  reminiscence  comes  upon  me.     I  see 


"the  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill." 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD.  35 

the  old  place  as  I  loved  it  years  ago,  surrounded  with 
its  evergreens  and  maples,  in  its  rural  simplicity  ex- 
pressive of  all  that  is  good  in  life.  I  think  of  the  cool 
water  as  it  courses  down  the  long  trough.  I  carve  my 
initials  on  the  barn  door.  I  am  a  boy  again,  happy  and 
free,  and  the  squirrels  are  playing  and  barking  In  the 
trees,  calling  me  to  them.  Ah,  I  loved  the  old  place! 
Yet  I  can  not  see  that  I  love  it  any  the  less  now.  I 
think  of  it  as  of  no  other  spot.  It  has  changed,  asV 
have  all  things,  in  the  years ;  but,  within  its  ivy-entwined 
walls — ^where  the  good  old  mottoes,  "Live  and  let 
live"  and  "Make  friends  and  keep  them,"  are  prac- 
ticed in  the  every-day  hospitality  of  life,  and  where 
plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  not  the  exception,  but 
the  general  rule — here,  then,  still  dwell  happiness  and 
old-time  living.  The  atmosphere  of  the  place  is  one 
of  rest,  and  quietness,  and  simple  ways.  Here  one 
may  live  in  comfort  and  seclusion,  and  at  peace  with 
the  world. 

Alice  Cary  has  a  beautiful  poem  entitled  "The 
Old  Homestead,"  and  I  shall  give  a  stanza  or  two  of 
it,  as,  in  her  fine  poetic  gift,  she  has  expressed  what 
can  best  be  said  in  verse,  after  all,  and  is  therefore 
a  fit  tribute  to  that  halo  of  love  and  of  mystery  which 
still  surrounds  the  homestead  of  these  memories: 

"  When  skies  are  growing  warm  and  bright. 

And  in  the  woodland  bowers 
The  Spring-time  in  her  pale,  faint  robes 

Is  calling  up  the  flowers, 
When  all  with  naked  little  feet 

The  children  in  the  mom 
Go  forth,  and  in  the  furrows  drop 

The  seeds  of  yellow  com  ; 


36  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

What  a  beautiful  embodiment 

Of  ease  devoid  of  pride 
Is  the  good  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  its  doors  set  open  wide  ! 

*'  When  home  the  woodsman  plods  with  ax 

Upon  his  shoulders  swung, 
And  in  the  knotted  apple-tree 

Are  scythe  and  sickle  hung  ; 
When  low  about  her  clay-built  nest 

The  mother  swallow  trills, 
And  decorously  slow,  the  cows 

Are  wending  down  the  hills  ; 
What  a  blessed  picture  of  comfort, 

In  the  evening  shadows  red. 
Is  the  good,  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  its  bounteous  table  spread  ! 

**  But  whether  the  brooks  be  fringed  with  flowers, 

Or  whether  the  dead  leaves  fall. 
And  whether  the  air  be  full  of  songs, 

Or  never  a  song  at  all, 
And  whether  the  vines  of  the  strawberries 

Or  frosts  through  the  grasses  run, 
And  whether  it  rain  or  whether  it  shine 

Is  all  to  me  as  one. 
For  bright  as  brightest  sunshine 

The  light  of  memorj'  streams 
Round  the  old-fashioned  homestead. 

Where  I  dreamed  my  dream  of  dreams  !" 


THE  OLD  FIREPLACE. 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE. 


"Mankind  has  never  \villing:ly  relinquished  the  camp-fire.  It  is  not 
preference,  but  necessity,  that  has  driven  him  indoors.  Even  there  he  car- 
ried and  rekindled  its  embers,  and  it  became  the  hearth-fire :  a  flame,  sister 
to  the  flame  of  love.    So  much  he  rescued  from  the  loss  of  Paradise." 

— William  Cunningham  Gray. 


"Then  leave  that  buzzing  hive,  the  city  mart; 
Come,  while  my  gnarl'd  oaks  hold  their  wreath  of  snows. 
Come  to  a  country  hearth,  and  let  your  heart — 
Mellow^ed  by  midnight,  w^hile  the  back-logr  glows- 
Touch  on  the  themes  most  dear." 

-Lloyd  Mifflin. 


I  HE  RE  is  nothing  like  a  wood  fire. 
The  blaze  crackles  out  good  cheer 
in  truly  royal  fashion.  It  is  one 
of  the  real  privileges  of  country 
life,  a  rightly  venerated  luxury. 
How  clean  the  wood  fire  is,  and 
how  fragrant  and  suggestive  the 
perfume  of  the  smoke !  There  is 
practically  no  soot,  and  the  ashes 
are  easily  taken  away.  It 's  like 
having  a  regular  outdoor  fire  in 
the  house,  and  gives  us  a  chance 
to  live  as  we  ought  to,  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  mingled  coziness  and  native  enjoyment. 
The  fireplace  itself  is  four  feet  wide  and  nearly 
three  deep,  and  the  entrance  is  three  feet  high  and  is 
slightly  arched.  That  will  hold  a  good-sized  log, 
you  see,  and  many  a  heavy  one  have  I  hoisted  and 
flung  into  it,  in  constructing  the  fire,  across  the  dogs. 

39 


THE    OLD    SUGAR    KF.TTI.H. 


40  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

The  floor  is  of  oak,  and  has  never  been  renewed,  and 
the  hearth  is  made  of  large  bricks.  We  can  see,  in 
under  the  edges  of  the  carpet,  the  ends  of  the  old  oak 
planks,  still  sound,  next  to  the  hearth.  A  couple  of 
andirons,  a  foot  or  so  apart,  stretch  out  toward  the 
back  of  the  chimney.  The  slender  iron  rods  that  span 
the  hearth,  as  parallel  supports  for  the  wood,  are  each 
elevated  a  few  inches  at  the  rear  by  a  small  leg,  or 
pin,  which  is  simply  a  bent-over  extension  of  the  hori- 
zontal cross-piece  itself;  and  they  are  raised  at  the 
front  to  an  equal  height  by  two  side-projecting  feet, 
or  stems,  apiece,  attached  to  the  framework.  Above 
these  fore  bases  are  two  large  metal  uprights,  which 
serve  to  keep  the  wood  from  spreading  too  far,  and 
to  uphold  the  backlog,  should  it  ever  fall  forward. 
These  erect  and  prominent  standards  are  generally  of 
brass  (or,  rarely,  of  hand-forged  bronze),  formed  into 
bosses,  or  scrollwork,  or  other  studded  and  armor-like 
devices,  which  are  sometimes  very  curiously  artistic 
and  ornamental;  and,  when  well  burnished,  they  reflect 
in  a  dancing  flicker  the  light  of  the  fire.  In  pioneer 
days  they  were  used  to  sustain  the  ends  of  the  spits  in 
cooking,  and  answered  the  purpose  as  a  sort  of  trevet. 
Those  in  front  of  the  old  fireplace  before  us  date  from 
close  to  the  eighteenth  century,  and  are  composed  of  a 
series  of  brass  knobs  one  above  another,  and  the  braces 
beneath  them  are  also  of  brass.  The  fire  irons,  too, 
are  often  wrought  in  relief,  with  very  attractive  designs 
in  the  antique. 

It  is  always  interesting  to  observe  the  different 
sizes  and  kinds  of  wood  thrown  on  a  fire  in  the  making 
of  it.     There  are  few  pleasures  equal  to  the  building 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  4 1 

of  one.  First,  of  course,  comes  the  huge  backlog  itself, 
perhaps  half  a  log  of  sugar  maple,  preferably  green, 
pounded  and  riven  in  two  with  maul  and  wedges,  and 
with  moss,  and  shreds  of  bark,  and  lichens  still  hanging 
to  it;  and  now  slung,  back  of  the  andirons  and  propped 
up  by  them,  against  the  chimney,  as  the  reflector  and 
mainstay  of  the  fire  and  the  protection  of  the  chimney 
walls.  Then  a  good-sized  forestick  will  be  placed 
down  in  front,  close  to  the  uprights  and  on  the  trans- 
verse shafts;  and  perhaps  that  is  part  of  an  old  dead 
oak,  cut  and  split  up  now  into  wood.  A  few  dry  beech 
leaves,  or  bean  pods,  or  shucks,  may  be  used  as  kind- 
lings to  start  a  blaze  with,  down  in  between  the  irons, 
among  the  ashes,  and  set  afire  by  a  few  live  coals  raked 
and  poked  out  from  within  the  embers;  and  on  top  of 
these  we  shall  put  a  handful  of  shavings,  or  some  chips, 
or  fragments  of  an  old  board  or  shingle,  or  a  few 
picked-up  splinters  from  a  dilapidated  fence  rail;  while, 
still  further,  upon  these  materials,  and  resting  on  the 
bars,  between  the  forestick  and  the  backlog,  we  shall 
lay  several  smaller  pieces  of  wood  similar  to  the  fore- 
stick — one,  say,  of  ash,  another  of  beech,  a  stick  or 
two  pruned  from  the  limb  of  an  apple-tree,  and  some 
dead  leafy  twigs  of  an  oak, — and  in  and  out  betwixt 
them  all  we  shall  insert  some  long  dry  slivers  of  hickory 
bark,  with  perhaps  a  thick  roll  from  the  rind  of  a 
beech  left  standing  up  against  the  backlog,  or  above  it, 
surmounting  the  whole : — and  then  we  shall  have  a  fire 
worthy  the  name!  We  shall  enjoy  it,  then,  through 
the  day,  and  with  our  fire  shovel  at  night  we  shall  cover 
the  remaining  coals,  and  the  ashes  will  keep  the  embers 
until  the  morning. 


42  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Hickory  bark  makes  the  hottest  fire,  and  for  this 
reason,  if  obtainable,  is  always  to  be  preferred  in  sugar- 
making  to  put  under  the  kettles.  But,  as  a  rule,  an 
apple-wood  fire  is  the  best  for  the  house,  for  apple 
does  n't  snap,  but  burns  with  a  steady,  beautiful  flame; 
though  I  like  a  good  sugar  fire  also.  For  general  pur- 
poses as  fuel,  however,  there  is  practically  no  wood 
superior  to  maple  or  hickory,  though  there  is  almost 
as  much  heat  given  out  by  the  sycamore.  I  like  to  use 
a  little  of  oak  and  beech,  too,  if  I  have  it,  to  add  to 
the  variety.  Buckeye  and  sour  gum  make  the  best  back- 
logs, outlasting  any  other  kind  of  wood  used  for  the 
purpose;  but  they  are  not  always  to  be  had.  Whole 
sticks — limbs,  or  sections  of  saplings — are  better  than 
split  wood  for  fuel ;  for  the  heart  wood  is  the  most  com- 
pact, while  that  in  the  outer  circles  of  growth  is  more 
porous  and  full  of  sap,  and  is  thus  less  fibrous  and 
radiates  less  heat.  Soft  maple  makes,  in  point  of  qual- 
ity, the  best  charcoal  of  all  the  trees,  but  an  ash-tree 
gives  the  greatest  percentage ;  willow,  too,  is  much  used 
for  the  purpose.  A  maple  generally  turns  out  about 
twenty-three  per  cent  of  its  bulk  in  charcoal,  and  an 
ash  twenty-five  per  cent.  Water-soaked  or  porous  wood 
(like  ash  and  oak)  always  snaps,  as  also  do  hickory 
and  locust.  Gas  imprisoned  there  will  suddenly  ex- 
plode and  send  out  sparks  scattering  all  over  a  room, 
to  the  sudden  discomfiture  of  the  terriers  perchance 
stretched  out  before  the  fire,  who  will  start  up  and 
scramble  back  with  remarkable  activity.  A  coal  fire 
may  give  out  a  greater  heat  for  its  size,  but  I  will  ven- 
ture to  say  that,  if  I  have  a  wide  enough  fireplace,  I 
can  muster  up  a  wood  fire  sufficiently  hot  for  the  most 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  43 

exacting.  The  big  huge  wood  fire  of  pioneer  days 
would  heat  quite  a  large  room,  as  the  living  room  gen- 
erally was;  and  the  same  Is  true  of  the  few  open  fire- 
places still  left  remaining  in  the  old-time  homesteads. 
There  is  no  need  of  a  stove,  if  wood  is  plentiful. 

How  I  love  to  watch  the  fire!  How  it  curls  and 
laps  around  the  wood,  and  licks  its  way  in  and  out 
among  the  foresticks !  Sometimes  the  big  backlog  itself 
becomes  a  mass  of  red  coals,  with  blue  flames  playing 
and  hovering  above  it,  or  peeping  behind  the  flaky 
bark  that  is  perhaps  still  clinging  to  it.  I  love  to  see 
it,  and  to  dream  before  it  in  midnight  fancies.  As  a 
child  I  liked  nothing  better  than  to  watch  the  endless 
flocks  of  pigeons  soaring  away  In  the  soot  on  the  chim- 
ney's back.  The  rosy-and-yellow  spirals  creep  and 
wrap  about  the  burning  brands,  and  over  them,  and 
finally  leap  into  beautiful  pointed  tongues  above  lap- 
ping the  chimney,  or  changing  mayhap  into  sharp  fangs, 
entering  and  darting  up  the  very  funnel,  or  fleshing 
their  teeth  fiercely  against  the  chimney  sides.  And  as 
the  logs  hiss  and  crackle,  and  send  out  their  heat  and 
steam,  I  seem  to  hear  in  them  the  music  of  the  woods. 
It  Is  the  orchestra  of  the  oaks  and  maples  and  the 
others  together  on  the  hearth  there  that  we  hear  again 
now  indoors,  In  the  great  fire  chorus  of  the  trees. 

It  is  a  rare  enjoyment  to  poke  and  tend  the  fire. 
Lots  of  people  put  a  fire  out  by  fixing  it.  They  do  n't 
know  how.  It  is  quite  an  art  to  know  how  to  stir  up 
a  fire  aright,  and  requires  a  certain  instinct  which  can 
not  be  cultivated.  A  fire-poker,  like  a.  turkey-carver, 
is  born,  not  made. 

The  evemng  circle  about  the  fireplace  is  the  occa- 


44  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

slon  for  reminiscences  without  number  of  former  days. 
It  is  the  time,  too,  for  many  a  solemn  thought  and  ten- 
der recollection.  We  warm  our  toes  before  ascending 
to  the  less  hospitable  sheets  of  winter  nights,  and  the 
little  ones  go  to  sleep  counting  the  flocks  of  pigeons 
which  the  flames  have  started  up  back  there  on  the 
bricks  among  the  soot.  Yarns — unspeakable  for  their 
quaintness  and  cheerful  exaggeration — hunting  tales  of 
deer  and  'coons,  beech  and  hickory  nuts  and  walnuts, 
mulled  cider  and  apples,  mince  and  pumpkin  pies,  and 
popcorn : — what  a  time  we  have  of  it !  There  is  sure 
to  be  a  ghost  story,  and  there  is  generally  one  at  hand 
right  in  the  neighborhood;  but  the  ghost  usually  turns 
out  to  be  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  with  bare  arms  extended, 
though  frequently  the  younger  hearers  are  left  in  an 
uncomfortable  mystery,  the  thought  of  which  is  by  no 
means  reassuring  when  they  take  at  dusk  the  long  tramp 
through  the  woods  for  the  cows.  Perhaps,  on  occa- 
sion, a  few  sweet  potatoes  will  be  roasted  In  the  ashes, 
in  the  old  American  way,  to  be  whisked  out  with  a 
turkey  wing  as  a  besom ;  and  then,  the  f amilar  incident 
of  his  offering  the  British  officer  a  mess  of  baked  sweet 
potatoes  served  on  bark  furnishing  the  theme,  exten- 
slv^e  morallzlngs  will  be  entered  Into  upon  the  valor  of 
Francis  Marion's  men,  with  the  inevitable  conclusion 
always  finally  reached  that  no  one  will  ever  be  able  to 
whip  America.  Or  It  may  be  that  we  shall  have  a 
fiddle  during  the  evening,  and  shall  laugh  once  more  at 
"The  Arkansaw  Traveler;"  or  a  flute  may  play  for  us 
"Robin  Adair." 

Every  hearthslde  is  the  place  of  immemorial  family 
tradition.     How  many  such  farmsteads  dot  the  country 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  45 

over,  each  with  its  threads  of  ancestry  taking  the  in- 
habitants back  to  their  predecessors  in  New  England, 
or  again  tracing  the  generations  across  to  old  England, 
or  binding  the  family  ties  with  Scotland,  or  possibly 
other  parts  of  Europe. 

A  crane,  with  its  trammels,  used  to  stretch  out  from 
the  jamb  into  the  old  fireplace,  and  a  brass  kettle  hung 
at  its  end,  over  the  fire;  and  there  was  cooked  on  the 
hearth  the  perennial  mush  for  the  evening  meal  in 
pioneer  days.  Why,  even  after  he  had  graduated 
from  the  log  cabin,  father  was  still  brought  up  on  in- 
numerable bowls  of  yellow  cornmeal  mush  from  the 
begrimed  and  blackened  old  kettle.  I  have  not  eaten 
mush  boiled  at  the  end  of  the  crane,  but  I  have  helped 
to  boil  down  maple  syrup  in  that  fireplace,  in  the  same 
old  kettle,  after  the  sap  had  been  reduced  to  a  winy 
consistency  in  the  big  caldrons  at  the  camp,  whence 
it  was  brought  up  to  simmer  down  still  further  into 
thick,  golden  molasses  in  the  open  fireplace ;  and  I  have^ 
never  felt  so  full  of  happiness  and  romance  and  poetry 
as  when,  amid  all  these  old  associations,  I  made  maple 
syrup  that  year  alone  among  the  trees.  The  old  crane 
is  still  about  the  farm.  The  brass  kettles  are  still  used, 
and  the  big  iron  ones  do  their  duty  annually  either  at 
the  sugar  camp  or  in  boiling  potatoes  for  the  hogs. 
Longfellow's  poem,  "The  Hanging  of  the  Crane," 
celebrates  the  beginning  of  household  life,  in  a  sort 
of  house-warming, 

*'  As  in  the  chimney,  burning  bright, 
We  hung  the  iron  crane  to-night. 
And  merry  was  the  feast  and  long." 


46      AROUND. AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

There  was  a  big  brick  oven  built  against  the  back 
of  the  chimney,  in  the  kitchen,  in  pioneer  days,  and 
there  were  baked  the  many  loaves  of  bread,  and  mince 
and  pumpkin  pies;  and  it  was  no  common  baking,  for 
a  family  of  twelve.  They  had  a  long  wooden  paddle, 
broadly  flattened  at  one  end,  with  which  they  would 
reach  in  at  the  door  and  lift  and  draw  out  the  pies. 

Things  broiled  or  roasted  before  an  open  fireplace, 
or  even  cooked  on  a  wood  stove,  are  the  sweetest  in 
the  world.  I  recollect  serving  an  apprenticeship  in  the 
art  when  deer  hunting  one  autumn  on  Lookout  Moun- 
tain with  some  Georgia  mountaineers;  and  I  remember 
how  at  night  we  would  build  a  big  roaring  fire  in  our 
crude  and  faulty,  but  spacious  and  unceremonious, 
hearth  (we  slept  in  an  old  cabin),  a  veritable  burning 
pyre  of  pine  bark  piercing  the  stars,  and  would  then 
broil  bacon  over  the  coals,  when  the  fire  had  died  down. 
We  twisted  the  bacon  onto  the  peeled  and  sharpened 
ends  of  long,  slim  branches  of  beech,  broken  from  the 
trees  near  at  hand,  and  thus  kept  at  a  distance  from  the 
heat;  and  we  sometimes  broiled  two  or  more  pieces  on 
one  stick.  Now,  after  this  introduction  to,  and  ac- 
quaintance with,  that  primitive  and  time-honored 
method  of  cookery,  I  have  never  followed  any  other 
when  alone  in  the  woods  (except  to  roast  things  in  the 
ashes,  such  as  potatoes,  or  ears  of  sweet  corn  with  the 
shucks  still  on  them,  or  a  quail  rolled  in  mud),  and  I 
find  that  It  serves  well  for  squirrel,  rabbit,  or  venison, 
the  only  disadvantage  being  that  the  meat,  if  not  cooked 
aright,  becomes  rather  dry  from  the  lack  of  basting 
which  roasting  in  an  oven  affords.  But  take  a  young 
squirrel,  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  after  he  has  lived  for  a 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  47 

time  on  the  mast,  or  a  rabbit  well  fattened  In  the  fields, 
and  broil  it  carefully  over  a  bed  of  wood  coals  In  the 
forest,  delicately  turning  it  and  watching  it,  till  the 
skin  becomes  brown  and  crisp  and  the  tender  pink  flesh 
cracks  apart  slightly  as  it  sizzles — and  then.  If  It  be 
properly  prepared,  If  this  juicy  morsel  Is  not  the  best 
thing  you  ever  tasted,  and  fit  food  for  kings  or  the 
gods — well,  sir,  then  you  are  no  epicure,  and  I  will 
have  none  of  you ! 

Richard  Jefferies  has  forever  Immortalized  country 
cooking  in  this  unrivaled  description  of  a  leg  of  mutton 
roasted  before  an  open  fireplace.  In  his  "Amaryllis  at 
the  Fair:" 

"That  day  they  had  a  leg  of  mutton — a  special  occasion — 
a  joint  to  be  looked  on  reverently.  .  .  .  The  meat  was  dark 
brown,. as  mutton  should  be,  for  if  it  is  the  least  bit  white  it 
is  sure  to  be  poor;  the  grain  was  short,  and  ate  like  bread 
and  butter,  firm,  and  yet  almost  crumbling  to  the  touch;  it 
was  full  of  juicy  red  gravy,  and  cut  pleasantly,  the  knife  went 
through  it  nicely;  you  can  tell  good  meat  directly  you  touch 
it  with  a  knife.  It,  was  cooked  to  a  turn,  and  had  been  done 
at  a  wood  fire  on  a  hearth ;  no  oven  taste,  no  taint  of  coal  gas 
or  carbon ;  the  pure  flame  of  wood  had  browned  it.  Such 
emanations  as  there  may  be  from  burning  logs  are  odorous  of 
the  woodland,  of  the  sunshine,  of  the  fields  and  fresh  air;  the 
wood  simply  gives  out  as  it  burns  the  sweetness  it  has  im- 
bibed through  its  leaves  from  the  atmosphere  which  floats 
above  grass  and  flowers.  Essences  of  this  odor,  if  they  do 
penetrate  the  fibers  of  the  meat,  add  to  its  flavor  a  delicate 
aroma.     Grass-fed  meat,  cooked  at  a  wood  fire,  for  me." 

"Better  a  dinner  of  herbs  where  love  Is,  than  a 
stalled  ox  and  hatred  therewith."     The  privilege  of  the 
4 


48 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


wood  hearth  endears  to  our  hearts  the  thoughts  of 
home,  as  the  dinner  of  herbs  makes  it  more  real  to 
those  who  prepare  and  partake  of  it.  Here,  before  our 
rousing  fire — as  if  still  nomads  a-wandering  in  some 
primeval  paradise — here,  we  may  take  our  ease  in  an 
unrestrained,  unconventional,  natural  happiness:  Robin 


SPLIT  WOOD  RANKED  UP  IN  THE  WOODS. 


Hood  and  his  merry  men  again,  roasting  a  haunch  of 
venison,  home  from  the  chase,  under  the  trees. 

Each  variety  of  wood,  too,  like  each  flower,  has 
its  own  delicate  and  separate  scent  when  burning,  as 
the  freshly  cut  logs  have  also  when  lying  in  the  woods. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  the  perfume  of  the  smoke  is  so 
delightful,  formed,  as  it  is,  from  all  the  influences  of 
the  woods,  and  the  air,  and  the  flowers  and  grass,  ab- 
sorbed and  floated  away  now  in  beautiful  wreaths.  The 
aroma  of  the  vapor  from  a  wood  fire  is  filled  with  all 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  49 

sorts  of  romance  and  poetic  suggestion.  When  I  see 
smoke  issuing  from  a  chimney,  and  can  smell  the  fra- 
grance from  a  wood  fire,  I  always  feel  that  I  really 
am  once  more  in  the  country.  It  Is  a  perfume  which 
one  finds  only  there.  It  has  the  genuine  flavor  of  the 
woods  and  meadows. 

Whitman  speaks  of  his  enjoyment  of  this  feature 
of  the  country  upon  one  of  his  rambles  near  the  Hud- 
son ("Prose  Works:"  "Days  at  J.  B's.— Turf  Fires- 
Spring  Songs")  : 

"As  I  go  along  the  roads  I  like  to  see  the  farmers'  fires  in 
patches,  burning  the  dry  brush,  turf,  debris.  How  the  smoke 
crawls  along,  flat  to  the  ground,  slanting,  slowly  rising,  reach- 
ing away,  and  at  last  dissipating!  I  like  its  acrid  smell — ^whiffs 
just  reaching  me — welcomer  than  French  perfume." 

The  smoke,  therefore,  as  it  comes  rolling  and  puff- 
ing in  clouds  and  fumes  from  the  flue,  and  vanishes 
into  nothingness  finally  in  thin  feathery  shreds  and 
whitish  films,  is  always  a  symbol  of  home  and  has  a 
human  interest.  Do  you  recall  Thoreau's  poem  upon 
smoke,  and  what  he  says  of  it,  in  "Walden?" — 

"When  the  villagers  were  lighting  their  fires  beyond  the 
horizon,  I  too  gave  notice  to  the  various  wild  inhabitants  of 
Walden  vale,  by  a  smoky  streamer  from  my  chimney,  that  I 
was  awake. — 

"  Light-winged  Smoke,  Icarian  bird, 

Melting  thy  pinions  in  thy  upward  flight, 
Lark  without  song,  the  messenger  of  dawn, 
Circling  above  the  hamlets  as  thy  nest ; 
Or  else,  departing  dream,  and  shadowy  form 
Of  midnight  vision,  gathering  up  thy  skirts  ; 


50  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

By  night  star-veiling,  and  by  day 
Darkening  the  light  and  blotting  out  the  sun  ; 
Go  thou  my  incense  upward  from  this  hearth, 
And  ask  the  gods  to  pardon  this  clear  flame." 

Elsewhere,  in  his  journals,  he  writes  more  lengthily 
of  the  ideal  suggestiveness  of  smoke,  as  it  is  seen  at  a 
distance  about  a  cottage  or  farmhouse.  Cooper,  too, 
I  remember,  in  his  novels,  frequently  speaks  of  the 
human  significance  and  associations  of  smoke  when  it 
is  observed  through  the  forest.  Why?  Because  it 
rises  from  the  camp-fire  or  the  hearthstone. 

And  then  what  does  n't  the  wood  fire  suggest  of 
the  days  spent  in  cutting  the  wood  beneath  the  autumn 
leaves,  with  cant  hook,  and  saw  and  ax,  and  maul  and 
wedges !  Occasionally  we  get  a  reminder  of  those  days 
by  a  few  ants  seen  crawling  out  from  beneath  the  bark 
of  a  backlog — to  perish,  poor  things,  in  the  fire;  and 
we  recollect  the  times  when  we  have  discovered  bees 
and  wasps  in  the  trees  that  we  brought  low.  We  re- 
member the  crash  of  the  tree  as  it  fell;  and  how,  when 
split  open,  it  disclosed  an  army  of  grubs  and  borers: 
finally  to  repose,  piled  in  tiers,  in  the  woodshed,  sea- 
soned and  ripe  for  the  dogs.  Ah,  I  am  cutting  it  again 
among  the  trees,  and  hauling  it  in  to  the  woodshed 
in  sled  and  wagon  loads  in  winter.  Often,  in  loading 
a  lot  of  firewood  which  had  been  ranked  up  against  a 
stump  or  a  sapling,  I  have  found  a  rabbit  concealed  in 
under  the  wood;  and  lizards  have  darted  away,  when 
those  sticks  closest  to  the  ground  were  removed;  and 
little  wood  mice  would  scatter  in  all  directions  at  the 
stack's  dismemberment.  But  men  are  of  more  value, 
after  all,  than  many  mice,  and  these  "small  deer"  can 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE. 


51 


find  a  home  again  in  under  the  innumerable  leaves, 
or  beneath  a  stump,  or  in  a  hollow  root.  Poor  little 
fellows !  how  they  are  in  terror  of  a  dog,  and  how 
cruelly  a  dog  snaps  them  in  his  jaws  and  cracks  their 
fragile  little  ribs!  I  have  even  had  them  crawl  up 
on  the  outside  of  my  trouser's  leg  in  fear  when  my 
dog  was  after  them,  and  their  mute  appeal  has  never 
failed  of  a  right  answer. 


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THE  WOODSHED. 


It  used  to  be  the  custom  in  the  early  days  to  build 
some  of  the  log  cabins  with  fireplaces  in  them  so  large 
that  a  regular  log,  or  section  of  an  entire  prostrate 
tree,  could  be  used  as  a  backlog.  In  that  case  there 
was  a  door  at  each  end  of  the  fireplace  (which  ex- 
tended, practically,  completely  across  one  side  of  the 
cabin),  and  a  horse  would  be  driven  in  dragging  the 
log  by  a  chain ;  the  chain  would  be  unhooked,  the  horse 
would  go  out  by  the  other  door,   and  the  great  log 


52  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

would  be  rolled  over  back  into  the  deep  fireplace,  where 
it  would  last  for  several  days. 

I  have  seen  many  open  fireplaces  in  cabins  in  the 
South,  built  in  irregularly  of  stones  taken  from  the 
creek  or  gathered  at  the  clearing,  with  their  sooty 
corners  jutting  out  every  which  way  in  a  picturesque 
fashion  into  the  flames,  and  with  a  great  wide  open 
hearth,  large  enough  for  a  small  whole  log  to  enter. 
The  chimneys  were  made  of  crossed  sticks  cemented 
together  with  mud — stack  chimneys,  as  they  are  called. 
I  have  often  sat  beside  them,  and  there  have  heard 
related  stories  of  the  great  war  between  the  States, 
fought  so  long  ago,  as  it  seems  to  us  now,  and  have 
listened  to  the  tales  of  slaves  and  slave-owners,  with 
mayhap  the  barrel  of  an  old  army  musket,  or  a  bayonet, 
picked  up  or  captured  on  some  battlefield,  as  our  poker 
and  tongs. 

I  remember  once  being  also  in  the  study  of  an  emi- 
nent college  professor,  whose  glory  it  was  that  he  had 
a  large  fireplace  and  an  open  wood  fire.  He  had  a 
very  comfortable  divan  arranged  in  front  of  it,  and 
a  lamp  convenient;  and  I  suppose  that  a  good  many  of 
the  problems  of  earth  and  heaven  were  solv^ed  there 
before  the  logs.  I  recollect  also  the  study  of  another 
professor,  who,  as  a  lover  of  books,  could  scarcely 
have  found  a  more  fitting  environment  in  which  to 
interpret  the  real  spirit  of  literature  than  the  atmos- 
phere of  his  large  open  fireplace,  with  his  setters 
stretched  before  it,  in  his  beautiful  old  house  of  the 
Revolutionary  days.  It  was,  too,  my  good  fortune  to 
be  one  of  a  group  of  young  men  who  once  pursued  a 
course  in  poetry  in  the  library  of  another  professor, 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  53 

before  his  cheerful  wood  fire.  My  mind  goes  back 
also  to  a  few  glimpses  that  I  was  privileged  to  take 
of  the  study  of  the  president  of  a  great  university, 
where  a  wood  fire  burned  on  the  hearth,  beside  the 
books;  and,  again,  to  a  brief  midnight  visit  to  the 
spacious  and  magnificent  library  of  another  and  most 
profound  scholar,  world-renowned  indeed  for  his  eru- 
dition, who  rejoiced,  apparently,  even  in  his  theology, 
in  the  inspiration  of  his  lovely  wood  fire  and  in  the 
comfort  of  having  his  easy-chair  drawn  close  to  it. 
(The  hired  man  gave  me  the  opportunity,  with  a  lan- 
tern to  guide  us;  and  a  weird,  almost  mystical,  feeling 
it  was  that  came  upon  me  to  be  there,  in  the  dimness, 
among  the  interminable  tomes  of  the  great  dead.) 
But,  of  all  my  college  memories,  the  one  that  I  cherish 
perhaps  most,  or  at  least  equally  with  any  of  the  others, 
is  the  thought  of  a  delightful  evening  which  I  spent 
in  the  fellowship  of  a  great  philosopher,  when,  as  we 
talked  together  through  the  hours  before  the  logs  and 
watched  the  glowing  coals  die  away  into  the  midnight 
embers,  he  spoke  to  me  of  God,  and  of  the  reality  of 
truth,  and  of  the  exceeding  beauty  of  life. 

No  one  who  has  ever  stood  before  the  old-time, 
spacious  fireplace  at  Mount  Vernon,  with  its  crane  and 
trammels  and  all  the  cooking  utensils,  can  have  failed 
to  feel  a  thrill  in  the  experience.  Why,  here  Wash- 
ington lived!  And  this  is  the  kind  of  fire  he  had! 
And  so  with  all  the  other  colonial  mansions,  when  the 
forests  were  plenty — old  andirons,  old  bellows,  old 
tongs,  old  inglenooks.  What  an  atmosphere  of  old- 
time  ways  and  old-time  living — the  very  heart  of  the 
republic,  even  now,  to  my  thinking! 


54  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

The  old-fashioned  fireplace  is  roomy,  and  one  does 
not  feel  cramped,  as  he  frequently  does  even  in  the 
better  city  residences.  Few  things  are  more  delightful 
to  the  memory  than  late  afternoons  and  evenings  spent 
with  a  book  before  the  crackling  hearth  in  the  twilight. 
'T  is  then  we  appreciate  the  value,  in  Cowper's  lines,  of 

*'  Homebom  happiness, 
Fireside  employments,  intimate  delights. 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  retirement  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening  know." 

The  fire  is  especially  cheerful  in  cold  weather,  when 
the  snow  is  swirling  and  drifting  outside,  and  silting  a 
little  under  the  doorsill,  or  perhaps  a  flake  or  two  fall- 
ing down  the  great  black  chimney.  Emerson  speaks 
of  it  in  "The  Snow-Storm:" 

"  The  sled  and  traveler  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  inclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 

And  again,  in  his  "May-Day,"  he  says: 

Back  to  books  and  sheltered  home, 
And  wood-fire  flickering  on  the  walls. 
To  hear,  when,  'mid  our  talk  and  games, 
Without  the  baffled  north-wind  calls." 

There  is  a  painting  by  David  Neal  (I  have  seen 
but  the  wood  engravings  of  it),  in  which  the  artist 
has  placed  James  Watt  beside  an  old-fashioned  fire- 
place, watching  the  steam  come  whistling  from  a  kettle, 
as  it  hangs  over  the  logs  from  a  crane.  Many  a  book, 
too,  has  been  read  in  the  firelight  by  tow-headed  boy 
lying  before  it. 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  55 

How  many  fancies  circle  about  the  wood  fire — 
thoughts  of  the  squirrel  twitch-ups  and  the  quail  traps, 
and  of  the  halcyon  days  of  long  ago  when  as  many  as 
a  dozen  quail  could  be  caught  in  a  figure  four,  and  of 
the  many  squirrel  and  quail  and  rabbit  hunts;  aye,  and 
dreams,  too,  dreams  of  what  might  have  been,  and  of 
what  still  may  be,  in  the  opportunities  of  life.  But  let 
Keats  tell  us  of  the  mood  in  his  "Fancy:" 

"  O  sweet  Fancy  !   let  her  loose  ; 
Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 
And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring  •* 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming; 
Autumn's  red-lipped  fruitage  too, 
Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 
Cloys  with  tasting.     What  do  then  ? 
Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 
The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright. 
Spirit  of  a  winter's  night ; 
When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled. 
And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 
From  the  plowboy's  heavy  shoon  ; 
When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 
In  a  dark  conspiracy 
To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 
Sit  thee  there    and  send  abroad 
With  a  mind  self-overaw'd, 
Fancy    high-commission'd  : — send  her! 
She  has  vassals  to  attend  her: 
She  will  bring,  in  spit  of  frost. 
Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost ; 
She  will  bring  thee,  all  together. 
All  delights  of  summer  weather  ; 
All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 
From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray  ; 
All  the  heaped  Autumn's    wealth. 
With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth  : 
She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 
Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup. 


56  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

And  thou  shah  quaff  it: — thou  shalt  hear 
Distant  harvest  carols  clear  ; 
Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn  ; 
Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn  ; 
And,  in  the  same  moment — hark  ! 
'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 
Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 
Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw." 

I  believe,  too,  with  Emerson,  that  the  farmer  has 
to  encounter  the  same  problems  of  life,  while  seated 
before  the  open  wood  fire  on  his  hearth,  that  the  phi- 
losopher meets  with  in  his  study,  and  reaches  a  solution 
perhaps  just  as  satisfactory;  that  it  requires  the  same 
struggle  to  do  so,  and  the  solving  has  with  each  the 
same  ultimate  and  fundamental  truth  and  good  in  It: 
just  as  the  private  soldier  can  know  as  much  of  courage 
and  patriotism  and  true  love  of  country  as  the  general. 

There  is  yet  one  thing  further  I  will  say.  I  have 
made  fires  of  poplar  and  tacamahac  on  the  prairies  of 
Minnesota  for  my  noontide;  I  have  heard  the  bacon 
sizzle  over  a  roaring  blaze  of  pine  bark  in  a  lone  hun- 
ter's cabin  far  back  on  Lookout  Mountain;  I  have 
warmed  myself  by  the  flames  of  the  cottonwood  along 
the  Cumberland  and  Ohio;  I  have  broiled  a  rabbit  for 
my  meal  over  the  coals  of  the  loblolly  pine,  far  away  in 
central  Arkansas;  I  have  gazed  across  toward  the 
Catskills  beside  a  fire  of  spruce  in  the  Berkshires;  I 
have  roasted  venison  for  my  lunch  before  a  fiery  mass 
of  birch  deep  in  the  forests  of  the  Adirondacks;  I  have 
cooked  pickerel  on  a  grating  of  stones  heated  by  flames 
of  maple  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Superior;  I  have 
watched  the  flickering  blue  flare  of  a  driftwood  fire 
along  the  beach  of  the  Atlantic;  and  I  have  found  a 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  57 

companion  for  myself  in  the  light  of  beech  and  oak 
and  hickory  in  many  and  many  a  woody  dingle,  and 
perchance  have  broiled  a  squirrel  or  a  bird  for  break- 
fast: but  never,  and  nowhere  else,  have  I  enjoyed  the 
real  and  genuine  and  lasting  comfort  of  a  wood  fire 
so  thoroughly  as  right  back  here  at  the  old  homestead, 
before  the  huge  old  mossy  backlog  and  flaming  fore- 
sticks.    Ah,  how  the  delight  of  it  lingers — and  lingers ! 

Homer  tells  us,  in  a  realistic  picture,  in  the 
"Odyssey,"  that,  when  Hermes  reached  Calypso's  cave, 
"on  the  hearth  was  a  great  fire  burning,  and  from  afar 
through  the  isles  was  smelt  the  fragrance  of  cleft  cedar 
blazing,  and  of  sandal  wood."  Theocritus,  too,  that 
old  Greek  lover  of  the  open  air  and  the  best  things  life 
has  for  us,  loved  the  charm  of  the  wood  fire.  It  was 
beside  such  a  hearth  that  Menalcas,  the  shepherd,  re- 
clined, in  his  song  in  the  ninth  idyl,  with  fleeces  from 
his  ewes  and  goats  beneath  him,  in  his  cave: 

"In  the  fire  of  oak-faggots  puddings  are  hissing-hot,  and 
dry  beech-nuts  roast  therein,  in  the  wintry  weather,  and,  truly, 
for  the  winter  season  I  care  not  even  so  much  as  a  toothless 
man  does  for  walnuts,  when  rich  pottage  is  beside  him." 

And  for  this,  his  song,  he  received  from  iEtna  the 
gift  of  a  horn  made  of  a  spiral  shell. 

iEsop  saw  fit  to  make  the  hearth  the  scene  of  one 
of  his  fables,  in  which  a  countryman  finds  a  freezing 
snake  and  brings  it  in  before  the  fire;  upon  which  the 
snake,  at  its  recovery,  attacks  the  villager's  wife  and 
children,  and  is  summarily  dispatched  for  its  ingrati- 


58  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

tude.  Cinderella,  too,  in  the  fairy  tale,  busies  herself 
before  the  hearth. 

Shakespeare  evidently  knew  of  the  wood  fire,  and 
we  perhaps  get  hints  of  his  own  poaching  experiences 
in  what  few  glimpses  we  have  from  him  of  the  log  fire 
of  those  days.  The  song  of  Winter,  in  "Love's  La- 
bour's  Lost,"  is  an  example  in  point: 

"  When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 
When  blood  is  nipp'd  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl. 

Tu-whoo ; 
Tu-whit,  tu-whoo,  a  merry  note. 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot." 

And  again,  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  Capulet  orders: 

"  Sirrah,  fetch  drier  logs  ; 
Call  Peter,  he  will  show  thee  where  they  are." 

Implying,  one  might  think,  that  there  was  a  lot  of  them 
heaped  up  ready  for  the  fireplace.  Further,  in  "The 
Tempest,"  when  Caliban  says  that  he  '11  no  longer 
"fetch  in  firing"  for  his  master,  Prospero  requires  it 
of  Ferdinand;  and  thereby  hangs  the  tale,  in  one  of 
the  prettiest  of  love  matches : 

'^  Entir  Ferdinand,  bearing  a  log. 
Ferdinand. — '  There  be  some  sports  are  painful,  and  their  labor 
Delight  in  them  sets  off: 

I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up. 
Upon  a  sore  injunction.' 
Miranda. —  '  Alas  !  now,  pray  you, 

Work  not  so  hard  :     I  would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs  that  you  are  enjoin 'd  to  pile  ! 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  59 

Pray,  set  it  down,  and  rest  you  :  when  this  bums, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you.      .     .     . 
If  you  'II  sit  down, 
I  '11  bear  your  logs  the  while.     Pray,  give  me  that ; 
I  'II  carry  it  to  the  pile.* 

Ferdinand. —  'Hear  my  soul  speak  : 

The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service  :  there  resides, 
To  make  me  slave  to  it :  and  for  your  sake 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man.'  " 

And  finally,  In  "All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,"  the 
clown  says  to  the  Lord  Lafeu,  "I  am  a  woodland  fel- 
low, sir,  that  always  loved  a  great  fire;"  such  a  fire, 
one  might  infer,  as  is  a  common  sight  in  our  wooded 
America. 

It  was  beside  a  neatherd's  hearth,  according  to  the 
story,  that  Alfred  the  Great  had  the  mortification  of 
letting  his  cakes  burn.  I  think,  too,  of  the  spacious 
hall  in  the  mansion  of  Cedric  the  Saxon,  with  Its  roar- 
ing, yawning  fireplaces,  as  pictured  in  "Iv-anhoe,"  and 
of  the  other  wild  hearths  that  Scott  has  described. 
Leigh  Hunt  has  a  pleasant  essay  entitled  "A  Day  by 
the  Fire,"  but  I  have  always  thought  It  would  have 
been  better  if  his  had  been  an  open  wood  hearth  instead 
of  a  grate  of  coal.  It  Is  beside  a  coal  fire,  however, 
that  Dickens  places  his  cricket,  with  the  kettle  above 
it,  and  tells  us  in  its  chirpings  that  the  reason  the  hearth 
is  so  dear  and  sweet  is  because  it  is  the  symbol  of  home 
and  happiness.  "To  have  a  cricket  on  the  hearth  is  the 
luckiest  thing  In  the  world." 

That  Is  a  pretty  picture  which  Burns  drew  In  "The 
Cotter's   Saturday  Night,"   when   the   laborer   returns 


6o  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

after  the  toll  of  the  week  to  his  cottage  at  the  close 
of  day. — 

"At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 
Th'  expectant  wee  things,  todlin',  stacher  thro* 

To  meet  their  dad  wi'  flichterin'  noise  and  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle  blinkin'  bonnilie, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie's   smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a'  his  weary,  carking  cares  beguile, 

An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and  his  toil." 

And,  later, 

"The  cheerful'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 
The  big  Ha'-Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride:" 

and  hymns  are  sung,  and  the  Scriptures  read,  and 
prayers  are  offered,  in  the  firelight. 

It  was  around  the  logs  on  winter  nights,  according 
to  Macaulay's  "Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,"  that  the  cus- 
tom was,  in  the  old  Roman  days,  to  relate  the  story 
of  Horatius  and  his  brave  defense  of  the  bridge.  The 
hearth  was  consecrated  to  Vesta,  and  the  Lares  and 
Penates  were  the  household  gods. 

The  Yule  log  was  a  great  institution  In  old  England. 
It  was  a  huge  affair,  sometimes  a  full,  unsplit  trunk 
of  a  tree,  brought  to  the  door  by  horses,  or  a  large 
tree-root  whole;  and  It  was  always  lit  from  a  chunk 
of  the  old  log,  saved  from  last  year's  burning  and  kept 
carefully  preserved  for  that  purpose.  A  great  deal 
of  the  romance  attached  to  the  open  fireplace  clusters 
about  the  Yule  log  and  Its  association  of  the  mistletoe 
and  Christmas-tide.     Says  old  Drayton: 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  6 1 

"And  at  each  pause  they  kiss ;  was  never  seen  such  rule 
In  any  place  but  here,  at  bonfire,  or  at  Yule." 

Tennyson  mentions  it  in  his  line, 

"The  Yule-log  sparkled  keen  with  frost," 

and  gives  this  picture  of  the  Christmas  festivities,  in 
"In  Memoriam :" 

"Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 

The  holly  round  the   Christmas  hearth; 
The  silent  snow  possess'd  the  earth, 
And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve." 

Washington  Irving  was  naturally  attracted  by  such  a 
scene,  and  writes  of  the  log  in  his  "Sketch-Book." 
Lowell,  too,  in  "The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,"  has  left 
a  charming  description : 

"Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter. 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  grow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly; 
Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide, 
Wallows  the   Yule-log's   roaring  tide; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted   to   death   in   its   galleries  blind; 
And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer." 

And,  again,  our  American  poetess,  Celia  Thaxter,  in 
her  poem  "The  Yule  Log,"  has,  among  others  perhaps 
its  equal,  this  beautiful  stanza: 

"Come,  share  the  Yule-log's  glorious  heat! 
For  many  a  year  the  grand  old  tree 
Stood  garnering  up  the  sunshine  sweet, 
To  keep  for  our  festivity." 


62  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

But,  as  I  sit  before  the  logs,  I  am  reminded  espe- 
cially of  that  delightful  book,  of  our  own  country, 
which  most  men  have  read  somewhere  in  their  early 
twenties,  or  before  it,  "The  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor," 
by  Ik  Marvel,  for  it  was  beside  such  a  fire,  you  re- 
member, that  the  first  of  the  reveries  was  dreamed; 
and  in  "Dream  Life,"  too,  there  is  mention  of  the  open 
wood  hearth. 

Indeed,  there  have  been  a  few  books  named  from 
the  fire — Lowell's  "Fireside  Studies,"  Mabie's  "My 
Study  Fire,"  Gray's  "Camp-fire  Musings."  But  Charles 
Dudley  Warner's  "Backlog  Studies"  is  the  classic  of 
the  old-time  fireplace.  His  books  are  always  delight- 
ful, and  to  quote  from  it  with  any  satisfaction  would 
be  to  give  it  all.  Warner  deprecated  the  loss  of  the 
open  wood  fire  of  our  ancestors,  and  defended  it  with 
very  zealous  partisanship.  He  says  that  the  supreme 
achievement  of  woman,  and  the  most  convincing  evi- 
dence of  her  claims  to  the  title  of  housewife,  is  for  her 
to  maintain  the  supremacy  of  the  open  wood  fire. 

It  is  to  our  own  American  Whittier,  also,  that  we 
are  indebted  for  what  are,  so  far  as  I  have  read  or  can 
recall,  perhaps  the  best  lines  written  upon  the  old- 
fashioned  fireplace  of  the  forefathers,  in  this  familiar 
picture,   in  his  beautiful  idyl  "Snow-Bound:" 

"As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged   the  west, 
The  sun,   a  snow-blown  traveler,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 
We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back, — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick. 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick ; 
The  knotty  fore-stick   laid   apart. 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  63 

The  ragged  brush;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the   first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam. 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,   flower-like,   into   rosy  bloom ; 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without. 
We   sat  the   clean-winged    hearth    about. 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind   roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door. 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed; 
The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head. 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet. 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow. 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row. 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood." 

Ah,  Whittier  knew  that  kind  of  a  fire ! 

From  one  of  our  living  American  poets,  too,  Mr. 
Lloyd  Mifflin,  I  shall  select  the  following  very  beautiful 
and  flowing  sonnet,  entitled  "Upon  the  Hearth"  (from 
"At  the  Gates  of  Song"),  as  expressing  better  than 
any  of  us  can  do  the  real  poetic  significance  of  the 
blazing  logs  and  the  old-time  open  fireplace : 

"A  tree  will  prove  a  blessing  all  life  long; 
From  birth  to  death  it  brings  us  naught  but  good; 
Its  shade  will  make  a  pleasant  solitude. 
For  one  who  lies  and  dreams  the  grass  among; 
c  What  golden  globes  upon  its  limbs  are  hung 


64  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

In  summer;  and  when  dead,  its  burning  wood 

Will  foster  sweetness  in  the  poet's  mood, 

And  hum  upon  his  hearth,  and  help  his  song. 

Its  death  is  like  the  day's,  for  still  it  throws 

Its  roseate  light  lingering  around  our  rooms; 

As  slow  the  fire  its  last  of  life  consumes, 

It  sinks  to  embers  like  to  sunset  snows, 

And  dying,  even  in  its  ashes,  glows 

With  bright  remembrance  of  its  spring-time  blooms." 

The  open  hearth,  of  course,  suggests  the  camp-fire 
of  out-doors.  Dr.  W.  C.  Gray  and  Mr.  John  Bur- 
roughs both  think — and  is  it  a  mere  fancy? — that  we 
have  carried  the  wood  fire  indoors  with  us  from  our 
primeval,  open-air  life  of  ages  past.  Mr.  Burroughs 
says  that  the  "primitive  man"  in  him  wakes  up  at  once 
at  the  smell  of  smoke,  "and  all  his  old  love  of  fire,  and 
dependence  upon  it,  in  the  camp  or  the  cave,  comes 
freshly  to  mind."  Mr.  Bradford  Torrey,  too,  believes 
that,  since  we  "have  not  always  lived  in  houses,"  our 
feeling  of  attraction  for  a  fire  "is  but  part  of  an  an- 
cestral inheritance.  We  have  come  by  it  honestly,  as 
the  phrase  is."  Nor,  as  we,  in  our  time,  with  our  fire 
in  the  woods,  look  and  observe  the  flames  dart  heaven- 
ward in  aspiration,  can  we  but  rejoice  that  there  have 
been  at  least  some  fire-worshipers  among  the  pagan, 
for  it  brought  them  to  the  beginnings  of  mystery  and 
of  adoration. 

The  camp-fire,  of  course,  brings  instinctively  to 
mind  the  curl  of  smoke  from  wigwam  or  tepee,  and 
is  the  symbol  of  the  life  of  the  plains — the  council,  the 
pipe  of  peace,  the  feast  of  buffalo  and  venison — in  the 
native  home  of  the  American  Indian.  I  bethink  me 
also  of  the  countless  camp-fires  of  the  armies  of  the 
earth,   in  the  long  history  of  war;  and  no  man  who 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  65 

has  ever  bivouacked  as  a  soldier  but  will  gladly  jour- 
ney back  again  on  the  march  to  watch  once  more  on 
the  battlefields  of  memory. 

The  camp-fires  of  literature  are  many.  They  began 
with  Abel  and  the  sacrifice.  And  in  the  Bible  story, 
too,  are  other  wood  fires:  Sarah  and  her  cakes;  Abra- 
ham and  Isaac;  the  roasting  of  the  Passover;  Jehoiakim 
the  king  before  the  hearth.  Peter  it  was  who  warmed 
himself  in  indolence  before  a  fire  while  his  Lord  was 
buffeted;  but  it  was  the  same  impulsive  Peter  who  was 
the  first  to  reach  the  land  when  the  Master  called  the 
fishermen  to  the  shore  of  Galilee,  and  "they  saw  a  fire 
of  coals  there,  and  fish  laid  thereon,  and  bread" — and 
Henry  van  Dyke  says  that  he  would  rather  have  been 
at  that  camp-fire  than  at  any  other  in  history. 

Homer  and  Virgil  make  frequent  mention  of  the 
camp-fire,  and  the  roasting  thereon  of  venison  and  the 
flesh  of  bulls  and  goats,  pierced  through  with  spits. 
Theocritus  also  loved  it,  as  well  as  the  domestic  hearth. 

George  Borrow,  in  his  peculiarly  wild  and  adven- 
turous gypsy  tales,  has  much  to  say  of  the  open  fire  be- 
side his  tent;  confessing,  in  "Lavengro,"  in  a  most 
singular  and  pathetic  love  story,  that  it  was  in  Mum- 
per's Dingle,  beside  the  camp-fire  of  their  gypsy  taber- 
nacle, that  he  wooed,  and  lost,  the  fine-natured,  true- 
hearted  Isopel  Berners.  In  few  passages,  also,  of  Bor- 
row's  books  is  his  real  character  revealed  so  delight- 
fully as  in  these  apparently  chance  remarks  with  the 
Welsh  preacher's  wife  in  their  encampment  by  the  oaks 
under  the  stars: 

"'Excuse  me,  young  man   [she  asked],  but  do  you  know 
anything  of  God?' 


66  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

"'Very  little  [he  replied],  but  I  should  say  he  must, be  a 
wondrous  strong  person,  if  he  made  all  those  big  bright  things 
up  above  there,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ground  on  which  we  stand, 
which  bears  beings  like  these  oaks,  each  of  which  is  fifty  times 
as  strong  as  myself,  and  will  last  fifty  times  as  long.'  " 

Kinglake  also,  in  his  "Eothen,"  relates  a  romantic  ex- 
perience of  his  making  a  bivouac  near  the  Jordan. 

Thoreau  enjoyed  a  camp-fire  as  few  ever  did.  I 
recollect  especially  his  accounts  of  camp-fires  in  "The 
Maine  Woods,"  and  this  characteristic  passage  in  par- 
ticular: 

"It  was  interesting,  when  awakened  at  midnight,  to  watch 
the  grotesque  and  fiend-like  forms  and  motions  of  some  one 
of  the  party,  who,  not  being  able  to  sleep,  had  got  up  silently 
to  arouse  the  fire,  and  add  fresh  fuel,  for  a  change;  now 
stealthily  lugging  a  dead  tree  from  out  the  dark,  and  heaving 
it  on,  now  stirring  up  the  embers  with  his  fork,  or  tiptoeing 
about  to  observe  the  stars,  watched,  perchance,  by  half  the 
prostrate  party  in  breathless  silence ;  eo  much  the  more  intense 
because  they  were  awake,  while  each  supposed  his  neighbor 
sound  asleep." 

Mr.  Richard  Watson  Gilder  has  sun^  of  the  camp- 
fire,  and  its  light  upon  the  trees  in  the  forest,  in  "The 
Voice  of  the  Pine:" 

"  'T  is  night  upon  the  lake.     Our  bed  of  boughs 
Is  built  where,  high  above,  the  pine  tree  soughs. 
'T  is  stiil — and  yet  what  woody  noise^  loom 
Against  the  background  of  the  silent  gloom ! 


"Long  had  we  lain  beside  our  pine-wood  fire, 
From  things  of  sport  our  talk  had  risen  higher. 
How  frank  and  intimate  the  words  of  men 
When  tented  lonely  in  some  forest  glen! 


THE  OPEN  WOOD  FIRE.  67 

"  And  as  we  talked,  the  intense  and  resinous  fire 
Lit  up  the  towering  boles,  till  nigh  and  nigher 
They  gather  round,  a  ghostly  company, 
Like  beasts  who  seek  to  know  what  men  may  be." 

That  was  quite  a  fire  which  Shingebis,  the  diver, 
had  in  his  lodge,  in  Longfellow's  "Hiawatha,"  and  I 
question  whether  it  has  ever  been  equaled : 

"  Four  great  logs  had  he  for  fire-wood, 
One  for  each  moon  of  the  winter." 

Dr.  W.  C.  Gray  avers  that  he  was  able  to  hear 
the  music  of  the  spheres  beside  his  camp-fire  in  the 
Northern  woods;  and  elsewhere  in  his  "Musings  by 
Camp-fire  and  Wayside"  has  that  stanch  old  lover  of 
the  wild  led  us  into  many  an  attractive  train  of  moral- 
izings  by  the  firelight.  Rowland  E.  Robinson  has 
written  pleasantly  of  his  thoughts  beside  it;  Mr.  John 
Burroughs  is  a  warm  enthusiast  in  its  mellowing  light; 
Mr.  John  Muir  has  told  us  of  his  camp-fires  in  the 
Sierras;  and  quite  recently,  also,  Mr.  Stewart  Edward 
White,  in  "The  Forest,"  has  delighted  many  with  his 
camp-fire  descriptions. 

Mr.  Henry  van  Dyke,  however,  is  its  most  loyal 
defender,  his  sketch  on  "The  Open  Fire,"  in  "Fisher- 
man's Luck,"  being  as  readable  a  paper  upon  the  sub- 
ject as  one  could  wish.  Mr.  van  Dyke  (I  may  remark, 
in  passing)  speaks  of  using  his  lunch  paper  to  start  his 
camp-fire  with,  but,  in  making  our  fires,  in  boyhood 
days,  we  used  to  scorn  the  use  of  paper,  as  belonging 
more  to  the  usages  of  civilization,  and  so  always  started 
ours  with  leaves  and  twigs,  in  true  woodcraft  style. 
We  wanted  to  be  more  primitive  and  savage,  and  to 
lie  at  the  side  of  our  "dim  religious  light"  with  some 
sort  of  sense  of  fatherhood.     'T  was  the  old  wild  in- 


68  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

stinct  cropping  out  in  us,  you  know;  and  our  greatest 
regret  was  that  we  were  always  unable  to  kindle  a  blaze 
by  twirling  one  stick  against  another,  which  would  thus 
have  obviated  entirely  the  obnoxious  necessity  of 
matches.  But  then,  anyway,  savages  did  not  need  a 
fire  so  much  as  we. 

But  to  return  to  our  own  hearth.  Here  centered 
the  life  of  grandfather's  family.  Around  it  they  lived, 
and  here  the  boys  and  girls  were  brought  up.  It  was 
the  home  fire.  Consequently,  to  one  who  has  lived  in 
such  an  atmosphere,  and  especially  to  one  whose  whole 
early  life  was  surrounded  with  the  influences  of  the 
wood  fire  on  the  hearth,  and  whose  memories  are  all 
of  that,  nothing  stands  for  the  real  meaning  of  home 
and  family  quite  so  well  as  does  the  old-time  open  wood 
fireplace.  Nothing  can  take  its  place — no  coal  grate, 
or  stove,  or  registers,  or  steam  heaters — nothing  has 
the  same  pioneer-like  atmosphere. 

Yes,  my  heart  lies  back  among  the  old  quail  traps 
and  rabbit  twitch-ups.  I  love  the  simple  ways  of  the 
open  wood  fire  of  long  ago.  All  the  conventional, 
modernized  life  is  gone  as  I  sit  before  it,  all  gone  away 
into  the  smoke  of  the  chimney.  But  it  comes  back 
again,  and  will  not  leave  me;  and  the  glow  of  the  back- 
log dies  away  with  my  thoughts,  just  as  the  older  life 
is  passing,  never  to  be  produced  or  lived  again — nay, 
has  almost  vanished  now  even  from  our  memories. 

The  backlog  topples  over.  Thut !  A  spark  or  two 
ascend  the  chimney.  There  is  a  last  pale  flicker.  The 
old  fire  is  out.    .    .    .    Let  us  bank  it  up  for  the  night. 


THE  OLD  MUZZLE-LOADING  RIFLE. 


"There  could  be  no  greater  pleasure  to  me  than  to  ■wander  -with  a 
matchlock  through  one  of  the  great  forests  or  wild  tracts  that  still  remain 
in  England  .  .  .  The  Aveapon  itself,  whether  matchlock,  w^heel-lock,  or 
even  a  cross-bow^,  would  be  a  delight.     .    .     . 

"  An  imperfect  weapon^yes ;   but  the  imperfect  weapon  Avould  accord 

with  the   great   oaks,  the   beech  trees   fuU   of  knot-holes,  the  tall   fern,  the 

silence  and  the   solitude.    The  chase   would   become  a  real   chase :   not,  as 

now^,    a    foregone    conclusion.      And    there    would     be    time    for 

f  pondering  and  dreaming." 

—Richard  Jefferies. 

THERE  used  to  be  (and  still  Is)  an  old  muzzle- 
loading  rifle  about  the  farm,  hanging  generally 
in  the  lobby,  which  is  just  around  the  corner  from 
the   fireplace,   on   two   forks  of   saplings   that  had 
been  nailed  against  the  wall  as  hooks  to  support  it. 
It  had  curious  curvatures  on  the  stock,  on  which  to 
rest  the  chin  and  cheek,  and  the  butt  was  curved  so 
as  exactly  to  fit  the  shoulder.     Its  barrel  was  octagonal 
in  shape,  and  full-stocked — that  is,  wii-h  wood  from 
the  stock  extending  all  the  way  beneath  the  barrel  up 
to   the   muzzle — and  was  very   long,   the   full  length 
from  butt  to  muzzle  being  fifty-eight  inches; 
thus  making  the   gun,   stock  and  all,    as  tall 
as    the    tallest    boy    thereabouts,    almost.      It 
had  a  very  long  ramrod,  too,  that  slipped  down  into  the 
stock  in  a  groove  under  the  barrel,  and  we  used  to 
wonder  how  we  could  ever  replace  it,  if  it  got  broken. 
The  caliber  was  about  .38.     The  shoulder  plate  and 
trigger  guard  were  of  brass,   and  there  was  a  silver 
shield-like   plate   on   the   small   of   the   stock   for   the 
owner's  name. 

71 


THE  OLD  MUZZLE 
LOADER. 


72  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

There  was  an  old  powder-horn  hanging  there  also, 
which  belonged  to  the  rifle.  It  we  were  allowed  to  take 
when  out  with  the  shotgun — that,  too,  a  muzzle-loader 
— to  carry  our  powder  in.  The  shot  we  generally  took 
m  a  bottle,  the  old  shot  belt  hav- 
ing been  lost,  though  we  still  had 
the  brass  shot  measure  that  was  for- 
merly attached  to  it.  Besides  these,  three 
other  rifles  were  in  the  lobby.  One  was  a 
THE  HENRY.  .56  Caliber,  an  old  army  gun,  which  had 
doubtless  been  used  in  the  war,  and  which 
had  killed  deer  also ;  another  was  an  old  Henry  .44 
cahber  rim  fire,  with  all  mountings  of  brass,  and  it  had 
also  done  duty  with  reference  to  deer :  and  the  third 
was  a  small  .22  Flobert,  used  to  annihilate  sparrows 
or  rats,  or  occasionally  to  kill  a  chicken  that  was 
refractory  and  refused  to  be  caught.  There  were 
also,  home  from  the  war,  and  now  reposing  peace- 
fully on  nails  and  pegs,  an  old  army  holster  and  a 
brace  of  Colt's  muzzle-loading  pistols — curiously 
wrought  on  the  revolving  chamber  with  odd  engravings 
illustrating  the  value  of  such  firearms  in  case  of  high- 
way robbery — and  a  cavalryman's  helmet,  with  plume 
still  waving.     Quaint  old  lobby! 

The  old  muzzle-loading  rifle  had  belonged  to  grand- 
father, and  had  been  shot  by  all  his  sons  and  by  almost 
all  their  sons,  but  had  become  so  rusty  from  disuse 
that  to  shoot  it  again  some  thought  the  rifling  would 
have  to  be  bored  out  once  more.  But  we  did  n't  care 
for  that,  and  at  spare  moments  at  noon  or  In  the  even- 
ings we  would  stealthily  take  the  old  gun  down  and 
out  onto  the  porch,  and,  raising  It  slowly  and  steadily, 


THE  OLD  MUZZLE-LOADING  RIFLE.  73 

would  pull  the  trigger.  The  trigger  was  a  hair  trigger, 
and  the  point  was  to  get  the  aim  accurate  at  some 
famihar  object  of  the  barnyard  or  some  tree  in  the 
woods,  and  then  pull  at  once,  while  on  the  level.  But 
our  powder  was  smokeless,  and  our  bullets  were  never 
dug  out  of  the  trees  we  shot  into.  Yet  it  is  curious 
that  there  were  few  things  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  the  old  homestead  that  escaped  being  killed  or 
stricken  down  by  our  deadly  aim.  We  would  deliber- 
ately point  at  the  best  rooster  on  the  farm  and  fire, 
and  then  coolly  say,  as  the  innocent  fowl  kept  on  peck- 
ing, "There,  he  's  done  for."  I  have  even  known  us 
to  fire  at  the  horses  or  the  pigs  and  cattle,  and  occa- 
sionally a  buggy  or  an  unoffending  farm  wagon  on  the 
turnpike  beyond  was  the  object  of  our  marksmanship. 
"Yes,  I  think  I  hit  him,"  we  would  say.  We  never 
missed  with  that  old  gun.  It  was  a  heavy  old  gun, 
and  it  took  all  our  strength  in  younger  days,  and  not 
much  less  in  maturer  age,  to  lift  it  to  a  level  and  main- 
tain it  there.  Generally  we  sought  a  rest  against  a 
porch  pillar  or  held  It  muzzle-upward  to  the  sky,  so 
that  the  weight  came  upon  our  shoulders,  and  then 
proved  experts  with  swallows  and  buzzards. 

The  old  muzzle-loader,  with  its  cap  and  ball,  has 
had  its  day.  Like  the  flint-lock,  It  is  now  but  a  relic, 
and  has  been  replaced  by  the  better  rapid-firing  and 
repeating  breech-loading  guns  of  all  sorts.  But  the 
thought  of  it  lingers  lovingly  with  many  people,  for  it 
was  the  association  of  their  childhood,  and  they  first 
learned  the  art  of  "drawing  a  bead"  from  its  long, 
octagonal  barrel  and  good  sights.     It  brings  back  to 


74  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

the  memory  the  many,  many  squirrel  hunts  of  years 
ago,  and  is  the  symbol  of  all  that  is  picturesque  and 
pioneer-like  and  romantic  in  the  past. 

The  boys  of  late  have  taken  the  old  rifle  down  and 
soaked  it  in  coal-oil  and  cleaned  it  thoroughly,  and 
have  got  out  the  old  bullet  mold  and  made  a  lot  of 
bullets ;  and  it  again  does  duty,  they  tell  me,  and  shoots 
pretty  nearly  where  you  want  it  to,  although,  like  a 
veteran,  it  is  old  and  tottering  and  outnumbered.  I 
have  not  heard  of  many  of  the  wild  creatures  of  the 
woods  losing  their  lives  from  it  in  the  hands  of  its 
present  marksmen,  but  then  that  is  not  the  fault  of  the 
old  rifle.  It  is  ready  still  for  the  hand  that  knows  its 
cunning. 

Yes!  let  us  take  down  the  old  rifle  and  be  always 
among  the  trees.  Let  us  seek  contentment  in  the  seclu- 
sion and  wildness  of  the  forest,  and  let  us  ever  keep 
alive  in  us  the  old  hunting  instinct,  which  in  youth 
would  rise  up  in  our  hearts  at  the  first  whiff  of  autumn, 
and  which  in  old  age  will  bring  back  the  days  of  youth; 
and,  with  rifle  on  shoulder  and  powder-horn  slung  at 
our  sides,  let  us  seek  again  the  old  perfect  life  which 
still  lurks  somewhere  in  the  great  woods,  and  in  the 
beautiful  eyes  of  the  doe  and  gray  squirrel,  and  in  the 
mystery   and    romance    about   the    camp-fire. 

Thoughts  of  the  old  times  come  back  upon  me  in 
a  flood  of  vaguest  suggestion  and  sadness — thoughts  of 
grandfather  and  grandmother,  of  the  old-fashioned 
sugar  camps,  and  of  the  great  fields  of  wheat  and  the 
old  reaping  sickles;  and  I  seem  to  live  again  in  the 
past — the  past,  with  its  distaff  and  spindle.  Its  home- 


THE  OLD  MUZZLE-LOADING  RIFLE.  75 

spun,  its  pioneer-like  independence  and  adventure  and 
simplicity  of  life.  I  again  shoulder  the  old  muzzle- 
loader  and  shoot  a  brace  of  squirrels  before  breakfast. 
The  older  generation,  tottering  and  wrinkled,  is 
passing  into  a  loving  remembrance  and  is  giving  way 
to  the  new.  The  past,  with  its  inimitably  beautiful 
romance  and  its  things  of  pathos  and  love,  has  given 
place  in  a  large  measure,  except  in  memory,  to  the 
present,  with  its  energy,  glowing  life,  hopes,  and  its 
own  romance  and  poetry — that,  too,  soon  to  be  a  tale 
and  perhaps  to  be  forgotten.  The  hills  in  the  distance, 
as  seen  from  the  old  homestead,  seem  to  me  in  their 
sunset  glory  to  be  the  symbol  of  the  great  West,  the 
West  that  was  filled  with  romance  and  adventure,  and 
of  which  we  all  dreamed,  and  for  which  we  longed, 
in  childhood.  A  good  deal  of  the  old  woods  has  been 
cleared  away  now,  and  the  green  hills  beyond  can  be 
seen  more  plainly.  The  pioneer  has  left  the  old  home- 
stead, and  has  gone  far  beyond  into  the  regions  of  the 
prairie  and  the  great  forest;  and  with  him 
the  older,  aye,  and  perhaps  the  better, 
because  the  more  simple,  life — with  all 
its  ennobling  and  precious  and  endur- 
ing associations,  still  so  dear  to 
many  hearts — has  gone  now  forever, 
never  to  return,  brushed  aside  like  a 
cobweb  by  the  relentless  onward  march 
of  progress.  But  the  memory  of  it  clings 
and  will  linger  and  cling  through  the 
years,  for  from  such  beginnings  sprang 
the  bone  and  sinew  of  the  nation. 


ANTLERS  AND 

POWDER-HORN 


THE  BARN. 


"An  old  bam  is  near:  and  the  flocks  and  the  poultry  seem  to  enjoy 
an  amount  of  comfort  which  we  might  look  for  in  vain,  in  the  vicinity  of 
a  more  ornate  dwelling-house." 

— Wilson  Flagg, 

"And  she  wrapped  Him  in  sw^addling  clothes,  and 
laid  Him  in  a  manger,  because  there  was  no  room  for 
them  in  the  inn." 

—St.  Luke. 

I  HE  barn  Is  not  far  from  the  homestead, 
thirty  steps  or  so  beyond  the  trough 
where  the  cows  and  horses  drink;  and 
the  trough  is  near  the  well.  It  is  quite 
a  large  building,  well  constructed  of 
great  hewn  timbers;  and  it  is  an  old 
structure,  covered  with  the  initials  of 
two  or  three  generations.  The  im- 
OLD  DOLLiE.  mcnsc  beams   in   its   framework,  came 

from  the  woods,  and  one  can  still  see  the  score  marks  of 
the  ax,  made  originally  in  chopping  in  along  the  logs,  to 
facilitate  the  hewing  off  of  the  big  posts  and  slabs  with 
the  broadax,  and  thus,  after  all,  to  assist  the  laborer  in 
his  work.  To  build  a  barn  served  two  purposes  in  those 
days,  for  to  get  out  logs  helped  to  clear  the  land  as 
well  as  to  erect  a  shelter  for  the  stock  and  the  hay. 
The  bark  still  clings  to  some  of  the  beams  and  rafters. 
The  weatherboarding  is  of  pine,  from  the  State  of 
New  York,  flatboated  down  the  Ohio  from  Pittsburg, 
and  costing.  In  those  days,  but  eight  dollars  a  thou- 
sand. It  still  protects  and  preserves  the  great  interior 
from   the   storms. 


76 


THE  BARN.  79 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  neighbors  to  assemble  and 
help  a  settler  in  the  building  of  his  barn;  yet  even  then 
it  was  quite  a  task  in  pioneer  days  to  put  up  the  big 
beams,  and  a  dangerous  one,  for  the  beams  might  fall. 
It  took  an  even  hundred  men  to  do  the  work  for  grand- 
father. That  was  a  "barn  raising"  worthy  the  name. 
Pot-pies  after  pot-pies — pot-pies  galore  for  the  men — 
were  boiled  out  in  the  open  in  a  big  iron  kettle,  and 
innumerable  biscuits  and  loaves  of  bread,  and  apple 
and  mince  pies,  and  what  not;  for  a  "barn  raising," 
like  a  "husking  bee,"  along  with  the  fun,  meant  plenty 
of  hard  work  and  a  commensurate  amount  of  good 
things  to  eat.  And  when,  toward  evening,  the  bam 
was  all  done  and  the  men  were  resting,  grandfather 
stood  on  the  very  crest  of  the  ridge-pole  and  threw  the 
bottle  that  christened  it. 

The  barn,  especially  in  harvest,  is  always  filled, 
sometimes  with  clov^er  and  timothy  and  rustling  fodder, 
or,  again,  bursting  with  yellow  wheat  and  oats  just 
garnered,  or  stored  with  bins  of  potatoes  and  pumpkins 
in  their  season.  Wisps  of  hay  and  grain,  and  straw 
and  crackling  corn  leaves,  hang  from  the  mows  in  strag- 
gling bunches  about  the  beams  and  rafters.  It  is  on 
Its  broad  floor,  with  doors  flung  wide,  that  the  "husk- 
ing bees"  of  former  days  took  place,  when  the  neigh- 
borhood would  drop  in  for  a  frolic;  and  In  these  later 
times  it  Is  still  the  scene  of  threshing,  either  with  the 
burly,  roaring  machine,  which  soon  has  a  heap  of  the 
golden  grains  pouring  upon  the  boards  and  a  straw 
stack  rapidly  mounting  behind  the  barn,  whither  its 
long  elevator  extends  through  the  wide  open  doors, 
while  the  sheaves  are  thrown  from  the  lofts  above;  or 


8o  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

perhaps  with  horses,  who  patiently  tread  round  and 
round  upon  the  bundles,  the  grain  and  chaff  from 
which,  left  after  the  straw  has  been  raked  off,  are  then 
run  through  an  old-time  fanning  mill,  and  the  wheat 
thus  winnowed  from  the  refuse;  or,  possibly,  the  beat- 
ing is  done  in  the  primitive  way  with  a  flail  at  odd 
times  through  the  winter,  and  marks  of  the  swipple  are 
to  be  seen  on  the  boards.  The  corn-crib,  stuffed  with 
the  yellow  ears,  is  just  outside  the  barn. 

Instead  of  the  dense  woods  which  formerly  stood 
back  of  it,  all  is  open,  tillable  land,  an  extent  of  many 
miles;  and  the  view  that  we  have  from  its  open  doors, 
a  long,  peaceful  stretch  of  country,  out  across  the  roll- 
ing hills  and  far  beyond  the  Miami,  is  one  that  is  not 
often  afforded.  Barn  swallows  dart  in  and  out  of  the 
great  doors,  and  their  nests  of  mud  and  straw  are 
plastered  against  the  roof  and  rafters.  Chickens  peck 
about  for  chance  bits  of  grain,  and  the  hens  lay  their 
eggs  beneath  the  mangers  or  stow  them  away  in  dark 
nests  hollowed  out  in  the  mows,  concealed  amid  the 
hay  or  straw. 

I  spoke  of  the  initials.  Two  generations,  at  least, 
have  left  their  marks  upon  it,  and  possibly  three,  or 
even  four,  so  far  as  I  know.  It  has  always  been  such 
a  repository,  and  the  whole  barn  is  to-day  a  veritable 
mosaic  of  letters  and  dates.  We  can  find  them  inside 
and  outside,  on  the  doors,  on  the  weather-boarding 
(these  are  getting  a  little  faint  now,  being  so  old  and 
exposed  to  the  storms),  on  the  rafters  and  beams  (dug 
into  the  hard  oak  with  heroic  perseverance,  with  a 
barrel  to  stand  on),  on  the  big  supporting  posts,  on  the 
feed  box,  on  the  manger,  and  then  again  spreading  to 
the  barnyard,  and  finally  on  the  water  trough  out  by  the 


THE  BARN.  83 

well.  I  remember  once  getting  on  top  of  the  big  straw 
stack  back  of  the  barn  after  threshing  time,  and  scram- 
bling up  the  long,  sloping,  mossy  roof,  and  there  carv- 
ing my  initials  upon  the  shingles,  for  the  enlightenment 
of  balloonists  and  other  aeronauts  and  of  the  heavens 
generally;  but  I  do  not  suppose  many  ever  saw  them, 
for  we  had  to  climb  up  on  a  short  ladder  to  reach  the 
roof  from  the  stack,  and  then  afterwards  we  jumped 
off  into  the  straw.  I  wonder  if  the  men  ever  noticed 
them  who  tore  the  shingles  off  when  they  put  on  the 
new  tin  roof  some  years  ago.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
look  of  astonishment  and  appalling  fear  upon  the  faces 
of  my  aunts,  who  happened  to  be  looking  out  of  the 
doorway  of  the  homestead  just  at  the  time  we  peered 
above  the  ridge-pole  of  the  barn,  while  at  our  labors, 
to  see  the  surrounding  country,  and  who  therefore  at 
once  saw  us,  much  to  their  dire  consternation.  We, 
however,  immediately  ducked  our  heads,  and  when  we 
again  ventured  to  peek  over,  they  had  disappeared,  to 
our  great  relief. 

At  a  short  distance  west  of  the  homestead  (the 
barn  is  to  the  north)  stands  the  carriage  house,  filled 
with  many  a  curious  relic  of  the  past,  and  the  place 
for  the  cider  press  and  the  great  sugar  kettles.  Below 
it  a  few  paces  are  the  cow  house  and  the  pig  pen;  the 
former  of  these  the  daily  scene  of  a  tug  at  the  udders, 
and  the  latter  the  annual  scene  of  what  Whitman 
calls  "the  plenteous  winterwork  of  pork-packing," 
which,  however,  to  my  thinking,  is  more  work  than 
poetry.  Close  to  the  corner  of  the  homestead,  to  the 
south,  near  the  kitchen,  is  the  smokehouse,  covered 
with  great  waving  plumes  of  trumpet-vine,  which  has 
grown  up  about  it.     Just  west  of  it,  and  adjoining,  is 


84 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


the  open  woodshed;  and  beyond  that  a  little,  across  to 
the  south  from  the  carriage  house,  is  the  chicken  yard, 
where,  in  the  fruit  season,  the  unhappy  fowls  must 
repose  with  clipped  wings,  and  take  their  dust  baths 
beneath  the  shade  of  sunflowers,  whose  seeds  later  on 
they  will  devour  with  the  greatest  relish. 

The  smokehouse  once  a  year  is  the  place  for  smok- 
ing the  hams  and  bacons,  when  films  and  threads  of 
white  slowly  issue  from  every  crack  and  fissure  between 
the  boards  and  shingles,  so  that  it  looks  from  a  dis- 
tance as  if  the  structure  were  on  fire.  The  blaze  be- 
neath, the  hanging  hams,  which  are  suspended  from 
hooks  nailed  on  the  cross-beams,  is  generally  made 
of  green  hickory  and  corncobs,  and  these  give  a  sort 
of  tang  to  the  taste.  It  is  sometimes  also  the  repository 
of  the  big  camp  kettles,  when  unused,  during  the  year. 
The  woodshed  is  filled  with  all  the  store  of  fuel  for 

the  stove  and  fireplace — 
great  backlogs  of  beech  and 
maple,  foresticks  of  these 
also,  and  of  hickory,  apple, 
ash,  and  wood  of  every  de- 
scription gathered  about  the 
farm.  Above  the  tiers  of 
wood,  on  a  framework  of 
boards,  are  piled  the  hun- 
dred or  more  buckets  of  the 
sugar  camp.  Here,  too,  in 
a  corner,  is  a  barrel  of  sour 
milk  and  other  delicacies 
for  the  hogs. 

The  carriage  house  shel- 


THE    SMOKEHOUSE. 


THE  BARN.  85 

ters  the  buggy,  the  buckboard,  and  the  mower.  Upon 
its  walls  are  old-time  portraits  of  Jackson  and  Polk, 
and  the  bills  of  races  trotted  just  after  the  Civil  War, 
and  pictures  of  setters.  An  old  pronged  reaping  cradle 
hangs  on  a  peg  (the  large  beams  were  all  put  together 
with  wooden  pins,  and  great  seams  of  bark  still  cling 
to  the  posts),  and  hoes  and  scythes  and  other  imple- 
ments are  similarly  suspended.  The  rifles  are  occasion- 
ally leaned  in  a  corner  after  a  hunt.  An  old  pair  of 
dusty  saddlebags,  for  many  years  unused,  are  astride  a 
long  peg.  In  the  loft  will  be  found  the  spin- 
ning-wheel of  former  generations. 

Here  come  the  buckets  for  the  hogs,  and 
we  shall  follow  them !     The  hogs  are  a  little 
restricted  in  their  wanderings  now,  being 
confined  to  a  half-acre  lot,  comprising  the 
apricot  and  plum  orchards,  whose  enemies 
they  delight  to  honor  with  their  snouts, 
brass  rings  have  been  inserted  into  their  noses, 
however,  to  prevent  their  rooting  propensities 

^  .  ,  II-  I  'T-l  THE  OLD  SADDLEBAGS. 

from  gettmg  beyond  their  control.  1  hey  are 
great  fellows.  I  like  to  lean  over  as  I  feed  them,  and 
scratch  their  backs,  and  they  reciprocate  my  affection 
with  the  most  appreciative  grunts.  I  imagine,  after 
being  fattened  up  pretty  well  with  corn,  some  of  them 
will  go  as  high  as  three  hundred  dressed.  I  have  seen 
some  hogs  with  veritable  tusks  jutting  from  beneath 
their  lips,  and  raising  them  slightly.  They  looked  then 
like  the  dinosaurs  and  pterodactyls  of  eld,  through 
whose  remarkable  efforts  we  have  all  been  descended — 
so  they  say.  *^ 


86  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

In  grandfather's  time  the  hogs  were  allowed  to 
range  at  will  in  the  woods,  where  they  would  roam  and 
root  and  grunt  around  after  acorns  and  nuts;  and  hogs 
that  have  the  privilege  of  a  mast  diet  invariably  de- 
velop a  superior  quality  of  ham  and  bacon.  I  used 
to  like  to  listen  to  the  men  calling  them  in  at  dusk — 
"Poo-ee,  Poo-ee,  Poo-ee!"  And  shortly  there  would 
be  heard  a  scuffling  and  snorting  down  in  the  edge  of 
the  woods,  and  here  they  would  come  in  a  scrambling, 
squealing  rabble — shoats,  sows,  and  the  old  boar  all 
together,  soon  to  be  gormandizing  knee-deep  in  the 
nectar  of  swill,  or  crunching  with  amazing  rapidity 
the  grains  of  corn.     They  are  genuine  lovers  of  life. 

But  let  us  look  at  the  cows.  We  shall  find  them  in 
their  yard,  or  perhaps  already  penned  up  in  the  cow 
house  itself.     'T  is  there,  in  Whittier's  lines,  that 

"  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows." 

But  I  am  not  afraid  of  them.  I  like  to  scratch  their 
heads  and  stroke  their  sleek  necks,  and  sometimes  I 
grapple  them  by  the  horns  and  wrestle  with  them  in  a 
sort  of  rough  play.     They  seem  to  enjoy  it. 

I  like  to  call  them  in  at  evening — "So,  boss!  So, 
boss!  So/  So!"  I  pull  out  the  pasture  bars  at  one 
end,  from  the  holes  in  the  posts  in  which  they  are  in- 
serted, and  one  by  one  let  them  drop;  and  they  give 
forth,  as  they  fall,  a  sort  of  rude  musical  sound,  vary- 
ing with  their  thickness  and  the  kind  of  wood  the  rails 
are  made  of,  from  a  dull  thumping  thud  to  the  light 
tank  of  the  top  one,  which  echoes  in  the  recesses  of 


THE  BARN. 


89 


the  woods.  This  is  one  of  the  poetic  and  enjoyable 
features  of  country  life.  Then  I  call  again  for  them. 
And  soon  they  come  trooping  along  over  the  hills,  tak- 
ing a  last  bite  of  grass  or  nibbling  off  the  tips  of  vines 
or  the  tall  sweet  clover.  Each  herd  has  its  "boss,"  or 
leader,  among  them,  and  she  invariably  takes  the  head 
in  their  homeward  journey,  the  others   following  ac- 


"the  cows  are  coming  home." 

cording,  I  suppose,  to  seniority  in  appointment,  or  at 
least  each  giving  way  in  precedence  to  the  one  next 
qualified  to  oust  her.  Now  kine,  I  am  told,  are  gre- 
garious animals;  but,  when  a  young  heifer  suddenly 
bounds  away  from  the  herd  and  runs  scampering  and 
kicking  up  her  heels  through  the  orchard  and  over  the 
strawberries,  one  is  not  so  thoroughly  convinced  of  it; 
and,  when  a  calf  that  is  patiently  being  fed  all  at  once 


90  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

draws  back  and  bucks  Into  the  milk  and  splatters  it 
every  which  way,  one  is  tempted  to  follow  the  example 
of  the  exasperated  old  deacon,  who  is  reported  to  have 
indulged  in  considerable  profanity  upon  a  similar  occa- 
sion. I  recollect  an  old  cow  that  we  had,  old  Whitle, 
who  would  always  precede  the  others  quite  a  distance 
on  the  way  home  from  pasture,  solitary  and  unap- 
proachable, evidently,  like  Newton  in  Wordsworth's 
line, 

"  Voyaging  in  strange  seas  of   thought,  alone," 

while  Spottie,  and  Roxie,  and  Fawnie,  and  Dimple  all 
ambled  along  behind  in  gregarious  security;  but  then, 
she  had  been  brought  in  from  another  herd,  and  so 
never  affiliated  very  well  with  the  others.  But  old  Spot 
is  my  favorite — a  lovely  old  cow.  She  has  a  good  dis- 
position toward  mankind,  and  apparently  toward  the 
world  in  general,  and  is  always  content  if  she  has  but 
plenty  of  grass  and  clover.  Yet  is  she  "boss"  of  the 
herd,  though  ruling  in  great  meekness.  She  has  a 
crumpled  horn,  like  the  celebrated  cow  in  "the  house 
that  Jack  built,"  and  she  likes  ^o  have  me  scratch  her 
head  just  back  of  the  horns,  where  she  can't  reach  it 
very  conveniently.  I  always  liked  her.  She  would 
have  made  some  fellow  a  pretty  good  wife,  if  she 
had  n't  been  a   cow. 

I  enjoy  watching  them  graze  also  in  the  fields,  as 
they  pluck  off  the  tufts  of  rich  green  grass  with  a  twist 
of  their  rough  tongue.  Then,  too,  see  them  lift  their 
heads  among  the  low  hanging  branches  of  the  trees, 
and  browse  on  the  leaves  and  tender  tips.  Ah,  how 
they  love  the  greenery  of  the  woods   and   meadows! 


> 
z 
o 

X 

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c 

z 

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THE  BARN.  93 

They  seem  especially  to  relish  the  new  leaflets  on  the 
locusts  and  the  rough  foliage  of  the  hackberry;  but 
they  will  not  refuse  a  branch  of  maple,  or  of  ash,  or 
even  of  wild  cherry,  though  the  boughs  of  the  last,  if 
separate  from  the  tree  and  the  leaves  withered,  secrete 
a  poison  which  sometimes  kills  cattle,  while  there  is 
no  harm  in  their  feeding  on  the  fresh  live  twigs.  They 
strip  the  vines  of  the  Virginia  creeper  eagerly  of  their 
whorls  of  young  leaves,  and  do  not  mind  a  taste  of  the 
poison  three-leaf,  or  the  new  sprays  of  smilax  and  the 
wild  grape.  They  will  eat  certain  kinds  of  weeds  also, 
and  seem  to  like  immensely  to  spice  their  grass  with  a 
bunch  or  two  of  white  top.  And  there  they  stand  con- 
tentedly chewing  for  a  moment  or  two,  with  perhaps 
a  sprig  of  fresh  leaves  left  caught  upon  their  horns. 
Cows,  however,  are  very  discriminating  in  the  selection 
of  their  food.  It  takes  something  good  to  satisfy  a 
cow.  Sheep  are  not  so  particular,  but  will  gladly  de- 
vour almost  all  kinds  of  weeds  and  grasses.  It  is  inter- 
esting to  know  that  cows,  in  common  with  sheep  and 
all  ruminants,  have  no  front  upper  teeth,  but  only  a 
lower  set,  biting  against  a  sort  of  plate  of  cartilage 
above;  and  that  they  actually  have  four  stomachs — an 
apparatus  far  ahead  of  man's,  but  quite  necessary  for 
them,  in  order  to  take  care  of  the  chlorophyll,  and  so 
eventually  to  get  anything  worth  while  out  of  all  that 
green  stuff  which  they  appropriate  for  themselves. 

I  like  to  watch  the  cows  in  winter  crunching  the 
succulent,  fragrant  millet,  or  feeding  upon  clover  hay, 
or  eating  their  corn  fodder.  Sometimes  snow  gets 
mingled  with  it  from  the  stacks.  But  how  they  love 
it!     How  they  toss  it,  and  put  their  noses  down  into 


94  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

the  wisps  and  stalks,  and  slash  the  great  corn  leaves 
about!  The  milking  is  generally  attended  to  while 
they  eat,  and  that,  too,  is  always  an  interesting  proc- 
ess— that  is,  to  outsiders.  Szvish,  swoshi  swish,  swosh! 
swish,  swosh!  goes  the  milk  into  the  buckets,  in  a  kind 
of  rough  purring  rhythm.  In  summer  it  is  not  quite 
so  pleasant,  on  account  of  the  flies  that  bother  us. 
Homer  compares  the  thronging  Greeks,  in  their  eager- 
ness to  get  to  the  Trojans,  to  the  swarms  of  flies  that 
buzz  and  hover  about  the  full  milk  pails  in  the  spring 
and  summer  evenings.  Theocritus,  though,  goes  even 
further,  atid  says  that  the  laborers  in  his  time  had  to 
fasten  "guards  of  wood,  with  shapely  thongs,  about 
the  feet  of  the  kine,"  so  that  they  could  draw  near 
enough  to  milk  them  in  safety.  Nowadays,  however, 
men  are  getting  more  merciful,  and  so  spray  their  cows 
with  a  sort  of  fly  preventive  to  give  peace  while  they 
milk;  although  I  have  heard  of  an  ingenious  fellow 
who  had  an  apparatus  which  tied  the  cow's  tail  to  the 
ceiling  during  his  period  of  torture,  and  I  have  seen 
another  take  a  long  loop  of  rope  and  chain  (using  the 
fastener  in  the  stanchion  for  the  purpose)  and  fling  it 
over  the  cow's  hind-quarters  at  milking  time,  this  prov- 
ing an  effectual  barrier  to  the  switch  of  her  tail.  But 
watch  them  chew  their  cud  in  the  cow-yard  afterwards. 
Don  n't  you  wish  you  could  look  so  contented? 

There  is  much  difference  in  tKe  yield  of  each  indi- 
vidual cow,  and  a  still  greater  difference  in  the  quality 
and  quantity  of  milk  from  the  different  breeds.  The 
Jerseys  are  by  far  the  best  cows  for  butter;  indeed,  their 
rich  yellow  milk  would  seem  to  be  almost  all  butter  fat. 
But  for  a   "general  purpose"   cow,   to  furnish  butter, 


THE  BARN. 


95 


cream  for  the  table,  and  milk  for  the  hogs,  give  me  a 
cow  that  Is  at  least  part  Holstein.  They  are  big  eaters, 
because  they  are  big-bodied;  but  they  are  big  milkers, 
too,  and  old  Spot,  when  she  is  fresh,  will  give  a  couple 
of  pails  brimful  twice  a  day.  Of  course,  sometimes  the 
Holstein's  milk  does  not  come  up  to  the  test;  it  has 
been  said  that  the  Lord  has  already  watered  the  milk 
of  the  Holstein  for  the  dairyman.  Yet  are  they  very 
beautiful  animals,  with  their  white,  clean  background, 
flecked  with  delicate  strands  or  flakes  of  black,  or  irreg- 
ularly striped  or  spotted,  or  broadly  banded. 

I  have  seen  it  stated  that  cows  do  not  care  for  their 
young  after  a  certain  period,  and  finally  so  forget  them 
as  not  to  recognize  them  any  longer  when  they  become 
older  members  of  the  herd.  This  is  a  point  whereon 
my  experience  has  shown  differently.  Our  old  Spot, 
for  example,  had  a  calf  that  was  raised  and  brought 
into  the  herd,  in  due  time  having  a  calf  of  her  own; 
and  lo !  this  grand-calf,  as  we  may  call  it,  was  old  Spot's 
special  guardianship;  for  she  hooked  the  other  calves 
away,  but  played  with  this  one,  while  its  mother  stood 
admiring  by. 

Old  Spot  Is  part  Holstein,  and  so,  in  her  streaked, 
spotted  appearance,  she  sometimes  reminds  me  of  what 
Thoreau  said,  in  a  beautiful  random  passage  in  his 
journal,  of  a  heifer  that  he  fed  with  an  apple  :^ 

"One  more  confiding  heifer,  the  fairest  of  the  herd,  did 
by  degrees  approach  as  if  to  take  some  morsel  from  our  hands, 
while  our  hearts  leaped  to  our  mouths  with  expectation  and 


^  See  "Thoreau:  the  Poet-Naturalist,"  by  William  Ellery  Channing; 
pp.  65,  66. 

7 


96  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

delight.  She  by  degree's  drew  near  with  her  fair  limbs  (pro- 
gressive), making  pretense  of  browsing;  nearer  and  nearer, 
till  there  was  wafted  to  us  the  bovine  fragrance, — cream  of  all 
the  dairies  that  ever  were  or  ever  will  be:  and  then  she  raised 
her  gentle  muzzle  towards  us,  and  snuffed  an  honest  recogni- 
tion within  hand's  reach.  I  saw  it  was  possible  for  his  herd 
to  inspire  with  love  the  herdsman.  She  was  as  delicately 
featured  as  a  hind.  Her  hide  was  mingled  white  and  fawn 
color,  and  on  her  muzzle's  tip  there  was  a  white  spot  not 
bigger  than  a  daisy ;  and  on  her  side  turned  toward  me,  the 
map  of  Asia  plain  to  see. 

"Farewell,  dear  heifer!  Though  thou  forgettest  me,  my 
prayer  to  heaven  shall  be  that  thou  mayest  not  forget  thyself. 
There  was  a  whole  bucolic  in  her  snuff.  I  saw  her  name  was 
Sumac.  And  by  the  kindred  spots  I  knew  her  mother,  more 
sedate  and  matronly  with  full-grown  bag,  and  on  her  sides 
was  Asia  great  and  small,  the  plains  of  Tartary,  even  to  the 
pole;  while  on  her  daughter's  was  Asia  Minor.  She  was  not 
disposed  to  wanton  with  the  herdsman.  And  as  I  walked  she 
followed  me,  and  took  an  apple  from  my  hand,  and  seemed 
to  care  more  for  the  hand  than  the  apple.  So  innocent  a  face 
as  I  have  rarely  seen  on  any  creature,  and  I  have  looked  in  the 
face  of  many  heifers.  And  as  she  took  the  apple  from  my  hand 
I  caught  the  apple  of  her  eye.  She  smelled  as  sweet  as  the 
clethra  blossom.  There  was  no  sinister  expression.  And  for 
horns,  though  she  had  them,  they  were  so  well  disposed  in  the 
right  place,  but  neither  up  nor  down,  I  do  not  now  remember 
she  had  any.     No  horn  was  held  towards  me." 

Mr.  John  Burroughs,  too,  has  written  an  attractive 
paper  upon  the  cow,  which  he  has  called  "Our  Rural 
Divinity,"  and  which  is  quite  bucolic  and  certainly  very 
enjoyable. 

Besides     Trowbridge's     well-known     "Farm-Yard 


THE  BARN. 


97 


Song,"  there  are  not  many  poems  upon  cows;  but  there 
is  one,  entitled  "When  the  cows  come  home,"  by  Mrs. 
Agnes  E.  Mitchell,  which  is  so  full  of  sweet  breaths 
from  the  pasture  that  I  shall  leave  a  few  stanzas  of  it 
with  you,  as  presenting,  in  a  better  form  than  I  ever 
shall  be  able  to  do  the  real,  abiding  poetry  of  our 
friends  the  cows,  and  their  life  among  the  grasses: 

"  With  a  klingle,  klangle,  klingle, 
'Way  down  the  dusty  dingle, 
The  cows  are  coming  home ; 
Now  sweet  and  clear,  and  faint  and  low. 
The  airy  tinklings  come  and  go, 
Like  chimings  from  some  far-off  tower, 
Or  patterings  from  an  April  shower 

That  makes  the  daises  grow. 
Ko-kling,  ko-klang,  koklinglelingle, 
'Way  down  the  darkening  dingle 
The  cows  come  slowly  home. 
And  old-time  friends,  and  twilight  plays, 
And  starry  nights  and  sunny  days 
Come  trooping  up  the  misty  ways 

When  the  cows  come  home. 


"  With  a  tinkle,  tankle,  tinkle. 
Through  fern  and  periwinkle. 
The  cows  are  coming  home ; 
A-Ioitering  in  the  checkered  stream, 
Where  the  sun-rays  glance  and  gleam, 
Starine,  Peachbloom,  and  Phoebe  Phyllis 
Stand  knee-deep  in  the  creamy  lilies. 
In  a  drowsy  dream. 
To-link,  to-link,  tolinklinkle, 
O'er  banks  with  buttercups  a-twinkle 
The  cows  come  slowly  home  ; 
And  up  through  memory  s  deep  ravine 
Come  the  brook's  old  song  and  its  old-time  sheen, 
And  the  crescent  of  the  silver  queen. 
When  the  cows  ccme  home. 


98  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD 

"  With  a  kllngle,  klangle,  klingle, 

With  a  loo-oo,  and  moo-00,  and  jingle, 
The  cows  are  coming  home  ; 
And  over  there  on  Merlin  Hill, 
Hear  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will; 
The  dew-drops  lie  on  the  tangled  vines, 
And  over  the  poplars  Venus  shines, 
And  over  the  silent  mill. 
Ko-ling,  ko-lang,  kolinglelingle, 
With  a  ting-a-ling  and  jingle. 
The  cows  come  slowly  home. 
Let  down  the  bars  ;  let  in  the  train 
Of  long-gone  songs,  and  flowers,  and  rain  ; 
For  dear  old  times  come  back  again 

When  the  cows  come  home." 

It  Is  indeed  a  pleasure  to  be  with  animals,  and  to 
observe  their  ways.  Animals  are  franker  and  more 
direct  than  men  are  in  expressing  themselv^es.  You  can 
tell  what  an  animal  means,  but  you  can't  tell  much 
about  men.  I  have  met  with  few  horses  or  dogs  that 
would  make  good  politicians. 

What  a  difference  between  the  eyes  of  animals  and 
those  of  human  beings !  How  open,  how  transparent 
the  nature  of  a  horse  is,  or  of  a  dog  or  a  cow,  as  seen 
in  their  beautiful  eyes!  The  eyes  of  a  man  or  a  woman 
are  not  always  so.  I  can  not  see  into  their  souls  and 
know  their  real  character  as  I  can  when  I  look  into  the 
eyes  of  my  little  dog.  Homer's  favorite  epithet,  in- 
deed, the  best  compliment  that  the  old  Greeks  of  the 
"Iliad"  could  think  of  for  their  lady  loves,  was  "bo- 
opis,"  or  ox-eyed. 

Some  animals  are  naturally  neat,  while  others  are, 
like  some  men,  naturally  filthy.  Some,  that  is,  one 
might  well  say,  are  positively  brutal,  while  others  are 
not.     Squirrels  are  the  cleanest,  perhaps,  of  all  the  ani- 


THE  BARN.  99 

mals,  and  the  nicest  in  their  habits.  Some  cows  seem 
to  delight  in  being  clean,  in  picking  out  nice  places  to 
lie  down  in,  and  so  keep  their  udders  and  sides  free 
from  dirt;  while  others,  in  the  same  herd,  will  invari- 
ably be  about  as  unclean  and  reeking  as  wallowing 
could  make  them.  It  is  the  same  with  horses,  some 
requiring  two  or  three  times  more  currying  than  others. 
Even  pigs  have  their  preferences  and  selective  natures, 
and  I  think  I  could  actually  make  friends  of  some  hogs. 
Indeed,  I  have  taught  one  occasionally  to  stand  on  his 
hind  feet,  and  take  an  apple  from  my  hand. 

Animals  are  the  best  woodsmen  in  the  world. 
Emerson,  I  believe,  said  that  cows  were  the  best  sur- 
veyors for  a  railroad  (indeed,  the  streets  of  Boston  are 
said  to  succeed  the  cow  paths),  and  I  have  noticed 
in  following  the  paths  of  deer  in  the  woods  that  their 
trails  were  about  the  shortest  road  to  water  or  to  the 
lake  shore,  and  always  went  by  the  easiest  descent. 
I  could  not  but  observe  also  how  the  deer  would  follow 
up  a  blazed  line.  Quite  frequently  their  tracks  led  for 
some  distance  straight  along  from  blazed  tree  to 
blazed  tree.  Whether  they  thought  that  other  deer 
had  perhaps  bitten  the  bark,  and  so  followed  the  blazes 
as  deer  "sign,"  and  thus,  by  keeping  along  them  in  this 
way,  found  the  walking  gradually  better  and  the  ground 
harder  along  the  old  lines,  or  whether  they  had  at  first 
stepped  from  tree  to  tree  merely  from  curiosity,  to 
learn  perchance  what  had  slashed  the  tree  and  broken 
the  twigs,  I  do  not  know;  but  their  well-beaten  paths 
have  followed  many  a  section  line  in  my  woods-work, 
and  have  diverged  only  to  lead  to  water  or  to  better 
forage.     Deer  know  the  glades  and  dingles  that  are 


lOO  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

most  free  from  mosquitoes,  and  you  will  find  their 
yards  and  haunts  good  camping  places  for  that  reason. 

A  sheep  path,  too.  Is  the  best  route  for  a  railroad. 
Sheep  are  the  surest  of  weather  prophets,  and  know 
the  difference  between  a  real  and  an  apparent  storm. 
If  the  sheep  stay  out  during  a  storm  and  cast  their 
weather  eye  upwards  with  disdain  and  go  on  browsing, 
you  may  know  there  will  be  no  bad  weather,  that  It  will 
be  only  a  passing  local  shower.  But  if  they  come  in 
toward  the  barn  and  cower  behind  the  stacks,  then  you 
had  better  come  in  with  them. 

Grandfather  used  to  have  sheep,  and  a  great  time 
they  had  of  It  in  shearing  time,  when  they  drove  the 
flock  down  to  the  river,  four  miles  away,  and  washed 
the  fleece.  There  are  few  more  delightful  occupations 
than  the  raising  of  sheep.  Even  their  care,  and  the 
actual  handling  and  feeding,  are  poetic.  They  are  the 
most  beautiful,  to  my  notion,  of  all  God's  domestic 
animals.  There  are  few  spots  In  my  memory  so  green 
as  the  hours  I  have  spent  in  the  tending  of  sheep  and 
lambs. 

Animals,  too,  depend  upon  the  sense  of  smell  to 
help  them  much  more  than  does  man.  They  can  tell 
their  own  young  by  this  sense,  and  where  they  them- 
selves have  lain  last,  and  whether  they  are  in  their  own 
or  an  alien  flock  or  herd. 

The  gregarious  instinct  in  animals  begets  colonies 
of  ants,  schools  of  fishes,  swarms  of  bees,  broods  and 
flocks  of  chickens,  coveys  of  quail,  flocks  and  bands  of 
sheep,  herds  of  cattle,  droves  of  hogs,  litters  of  pup- 
pies, packs  of  hounds,  bevies  of  girls,  crowds  of  boys, 
and  communities  of  men  and  women. 


THE  BARN.  loi 

I  sometimes  wonder  whether  the  animals  ever  con- 
ceive of  themselves  as  being  like  others  of  their  species 
whom  they  recognize  so  easily.  Does  a  horse,  for 
example,  realize  that  he  is  like  the  nag  in  the  lot  that 
whinnered  at  him  as  he  passed,  or  is  it  true  of  him, 
as  of  men,  that,  as  he  drinks,  he  looketh  into  the  mirror 
of  the  pool  and  straightway  forgetteth  what  manner  of 
horse  he  was?  Can  it  be  that  chickens  have  an  indi- 
viduality, so  that  one  should  say  unto  the  other,  "How 
can  I  be  without  thee,  Scragly?"  and  the  other  should 
say  unto  the  one,  "How  can  I  be  without  thee.  Top- 
knot?" I  have  seen  roosters  and  hens  so  attached  as 
to  have  seemingly  an  affection  for  one  another.  It  is 
well  known  that  chicks  of  the  same  hatching  will  roost 
side  by  side  and  stay  together  long  after  they  have 
been  weaned;  and  I  have  noticed  two  young  ones,  of 
different  broods,  taking  walks  together,  and  forming  an 
acquaintanceship  which,  let  us  hope,  lasted  through  life, 
for  they  kept  together  day  by  day  and  evidently  enjoyed 
one  another's  companionship. 

Chickens,  for  some  reason,  besides  foraging  on 
everything  else  they  can  lay  their  bills  on,  are  exceed- 
ingly fond  of  the  berries  of  the  poison  ivy,  and  I  have 
seen  them  clamber  all  over  a  vine  in  order  to  get  the 
last  berry.  Animals,  too,  will  devour  the  new  fresh 
leaves  of  its  tips  with  apparent  relish.  They  are  dif- 
ferently constituted  from  us,  you  know. 

There  is  no  tenderer  passage  in  the  Bible  than  that 
in  which  Jesus  compares  His  own  willingness  to  forgive 
Jerusalem  with  the  anxiety  of  the  common  barnyard 
fowl  for  her  younglings,  in  these  words : 


I02      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

"O  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  thou  that  killest  the  prophets, 
and  stonest  them  that  are  sent  unto  thee,  how  often  would  I 
have  gathered  thy  children  together,  even  as  a  hen  gathereth 
her  chickens  under  her  wings,  and  ye  would  not!" 

Curiously,  that  is  the  one  instance  in  the  Bible 
where  the  hen  is  mentioned.  Job  propounded  the 
question  w^hether  there  was  any  taste  in  the  white  of 
an  egg,  and  other  birds  are  spoken  of  in  the  Scrip- 
tures; but  it  remained  for  the  Master  to  remember 
the  common  hen.  Aye,  but  even  more  than  by  that, 
has  He  sanctified  the  barn  unto  us:  He  was  first  laid 
in  a  manger,  while  round  about  Him  on  the  hillsides 
shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night. 

I  like  to  watch  the  chickens  as  they  drink.  How 
they  lift  their  little  heads,  and  let  the  cool  drops  trickle 
down  their  throats,  in  evident  pleasure  at  it!  Truly 
they,  too,  are  lovers  of  life. 

Do  animals  think  and  ponder?  I  see  no  reason 
why  they  should  not.  The  force  of  habit  certainly 
becomes  very  strong  upon  them.  I  know  that  calvary 
horses  get  so  used  to  the  bugle  that  they  obey  the  calls 
as  readily  as  the  men.  And  I  believe  that  an  old  farm 
horse  knows  whether  he  is  going  to  town,  or  to  the 
field,  or  just  down  to  the  post-office,  by  the  different 
sets  of  harness  we  put  on  him.  Perhaps  he  will  look 
forward  to  the  long  ride  and  wonder  how  heavy  the 
load  w'ill  be.  A  horse  used  to  a  certain  route  certainly 
knows  where  to  stop,  and  a  loose  horse,  even  out  on  a 
prairie,  can  generally  find  his  way  home  if  he  wants  to. 
A  horse  familiar  with  the  road  is  frequently  a  safer 


THE  BARN.  IO3 

guide  than  a  man  not  well  acquainted  with  it.  I  have 
had  a  horse  take  me  safely  to  where  I  wanted  to  go 
when  I  myself  was  somewhat  bewildered;  I  simply  let 
him  have  the  lines  to  himself,  and  guided  him  only 
when  he  turned  of  his  own  accord.  I  believe  they 
think.  They  are  perhaps  not  so  different  from  human 
beings.     But  they  can  not  tell  us. 

Now  no  man  can  serv'e  two  masters,  nor  can  a 
horse,  or  a  dog,  or  any  other  animal;  for  either  he 
will  love  the  one  and  hate  the  other,  or  else  he  will 
hate  the  one  and  love  the  other.  So  much  for  the 
training  of  them. 

But  let  us  go  back  to  the  barn.  The  barn  itself  is 
the  special  repository  of  the  horses;  and  'tis  here  the 
thralls  clean  the  Augean  stables.  The  wagons  are  in 
it,  too,  and  the  plows  and  harrows ;  and  all  the  harness 
is  hung  on  pegs  behind  the  stalls. 

Horses  are  really  exceedingly  intelligent.  They 
know  as  well  as  a  man  that  rain  water  slakes  the  thirst 
better  than  any  other.  Like  cows,  they  will  frequently 
prefer  pools  of  rain  to  even  freshly  drawn  buckets 
from  the  well ;  and  in  spring,  when  it  is  still  cold  enough 
to  freeze  in  the  nights,  I  have  seen  them  break  the 
ice  in  the  pasture  lowlands  with  their  forefeet  in  order 
to  get  at  the  water  beneath,  although  they  had  just 
been  offered  a  trough  full  at  the  barn.  We  once  had 
an  old  mare,  who,  though  she  could  n't  speak,  was  a 
smart  old  lady,  and  used  to  cross  one  foreleg  over  the 
other  to  brush  the  flies  away,  thus  killing  two  birds 
with  one  stone,  as  we  say.  Most  horses  have  much 
more  intelligence  than  men  and  women  commonly  think 
they  have.     As  they  grow  older  their  eyes  assume  a 


I04      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

wise  and  knowing  look,  much  different  from  the  eager 
stare  of  a  colt  unused  to  new  impressions. 

It  is  a  great  experience  to  have  made  friends  with 
an  animal.  They  know  all  our  individual  ways  as 
much  as  we  know  each  other.  They  know  who  will 
give  them  an  apple,  or  who  a  beat  on  the  head.  Horses 
have  their  moments  of  peace  and  joy  and  sorrow;  they 
have  their  pensive  and  playful  moods;  and  they  have 
their  fits  of  anger  and  waywardness,  like  men  and 
women.  It  takes  a  good  deal  of  sense  to  understand 
animals,  and  to  be  able  to  care  intelligently  for  their 
wants;  and  there  are  more  of  these,  and  much  more 
sense  is  required,  than  city  people  generally  think.  A 
man  can  learn  much  from  the  animals.  A  well-bred 
dog  is  very  much  of  a  gentleman,  and  a  faithful  and 
good-natured  old  horse  is  an  inspiration  to  better  serv- 
ice In  the  world. 

Bill  is  about  the  most  common  name  for  a  horse. 
There  is  always  a  Bill  in  every  barnyard,  or  a  Frank, 
or  a  Jim.  I  know  of  one  old  farm  where  the  name 
Billy  had  been  such  a  favorite  as  to  have  variously  been 
applied  to  as  many  as  three  of  the  horses  by  their 
owners.  Dollle,  among  the  gentler  sex,  is  perhaps  the 
name  most  generally  given,  or  Flossie,  or  Jennie,  or 
Queen. 

It  is  surprising,  the  real  courtesy  shown  by  the 
males  toward  the  females  by  our  horse  friends.  This 
Is  no  mere  fancy.  I  have  seen  It  In  more  than  one  in- 
stance, but  I  recollect  one  old  horse  In  particular,  with 
whom  I  had  to  do  at  that  time,  old  George,  who  would 
always  persistently  refuse  to  come  out  of  the  pasture, 
when  we  opened  the  gate,  ahead  of  Lizzie,  his  mate 


THE  BARN.  105 

on  the  team.  No  matter  how  far  behind  she  was,  or 
how  much  we  urged  him,  no,  sir!  he  would  not  go 
through  the  gate  until  she  came.  'T  was  against  all 
precedent  and  decency!  But  when  the  mare  finally 
sauntered  up,  old  George  would  lift  his  head  proudly 
for  her  to  pass  first,  in  genuine  heroic  deference  and 
with  a  touch  of  true  chivalry.  I  always  liked  the  old 
fellow  for  that,  and  sometimes  he  got  a  handful  more 
of  oats  than  I  was  told  to  give  him. 

Horses  always  know  one  another,  and  frequently 
two  or  three  will  become  great  cronies,  will  drive  well 
together,  and  will  enjoy  one  another's  presence.  The 
mere  appearance  of  strangers  will  cause  heels  to  project 
forcibly  behind  and  other  symptoms  of  displeasure  to 
become  noticeable.  But  I  have  in  mind  two  old  com- 
rades, Billy  and  Dandy,  who  had  been  driven  together 
for  years,  and  had  got  so  that  they  understood  each 
other's  ways  and  whims,  and  liked  them — yes,  they 
seemed  to  be  very  fond  of  each  other.  Billy  was  lazy 
and  Dandy  did  the  work,  and  perhaps  that  was  the 
reason  why  Billy  liked  Dandy;  yet  Billy  was  really  of 
an  affectionate  nature,  and  we  all  liked  him,  notwith- 
standing his  "cussedness,"  and  perhaps  that  was  why 
Dandy  liked  him  too.  One  spring  they  were  separated 
in  the  teams,  and  were  driven  with  other  horses.  Some 
weeks  after  the  separation  I  was  standing  with  my 
team  getting  ready  for  the  field,  when  Billy  spied 
Dandy,  and  came  up  to  him,  and  evinced  all  possible 
signs  of  appreciation  toward  him,  and  rubbed  noses 
with  him — kissing  him,  perhaps,  as  we  should  say — 
and  then  stood  in  the  ranks  beside  him,  ready  and 
eager  to  be  hitched  up  with  him  as  they  used  to  be; 


Io6      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

and  then,  when  I  drove  away  leaving  him  alone,  he 
looked  so  forlorn  and  disappointed  that  I  was  sorry 
I  had  n't  him  with  me.  But  another  teamster  came, 
and  he  was  led  away  with  some  others.  Dear  old  Billy 
and  Dandy!  I  wonder  where  they  are  now,  and 
whether  they  are  yet  alive,  and  who  feeds  and  beds 
them.  It  will  not  be  long  before  they  will  die,  and  be 
taken  out  to  the  fields  they  had  loved  and  been  in  so 
much.  I  should  like  to  be  there  to  soothe  their  last 
moments  with  whatever  of  alleviation  my  human  aid 
could  give.  Surely,  if  a  good  horse  does  not  go  to 
horse-Heaven — well,  if  he  does  not  go  there,  then  I  say 
that  he  should  go  there,  and  that  It 's  a  shame  that  he 
does  not !     But  our  better  natures  tell  us  that  he  does. 

Animals  have  many  ways  of  expressing  their  feel- 
ings and  of  communicating  with  one  another  that  we 
do  not  always  observe.  Different  modulations  of  the 
voice — of  the  baa  of  a  sheep,  or  the  moo  of  a  cow, 
or  the  whinner  of  a  horse,  or  the  bark  of  a  dog,  or 
even  the  grunt  of  a  pig — express  different  shades  of 
temper,  such  as  fear,  anxiety,  comfort.  My  dog  can 
tell  me  more  by  a  sudden  movement  of  his  ears  than 
if  he  had  spoken.  Animals  are  more  observant  than 
men.  A  horse  will  notice  a  wagon  across  a  field  long 
before  a  man  will.  And  so  are  animals  better  weather 
prophets  than  men.  They  know  the  lee  side  of  a  hay- 
stack; and  the  caw  of  the  crow  and  sudden  hurrying 
of  the  sheep  mean  the  storm  is  at  hand. 

We  say  that  man  is  the  highest  of  animals,  and  has 
dominion  over  the  rest  of  creation ;  and  we  are  right. 
Yet  let  us  put  ourselves  in  the  others'  places.  Man 
builds  suspension  bridges,  houses,  barns,  fences.     Now 


THE  BARN.  1 07 

horses  do  n't  do  these  things,  and  the  presumption  is 
therefore  that  they  can  not.  But  if  we  had  only  four 
big  hoofs,  and  could  eat  nothing  but  hay  and  oats, 
and  whinner,  could  we  act  much  differently  from  our 
horses,  no  matter  how  magnificent  a  brain  we  might 
have  concealed  beneath  our  great  long  ears  and  coat 
of  hair?  Is  it  not  man's  superior  equipment  which 
gives  him  his  power,  and  which  has  developed  his 
brain?  If  we  should  become  horses  and  dogs,  would 
we,  I  wonder,  be  as  intelligent  as  they? 

If  we  could  only  know,  doubtless  we  should  find 
in  these  great  dumb  beasts — dumb,  so  far  as  our  speech 
is  concerned — with  their  soft  lips  and  great  coats  of 
hair  and  waving  manes  and  sensitive  nostrils — I  say 
doubtless,  if  we  could  only  know,  we  should  find  a  rich 
soul  life  there;  associated,  as  their  life  is,  with  all  the 
influences  of  Nature,  the  water,  the  dewy  grass,  the 
fresh  earth,  the  sky — all  those  facts  that  we  account 
most  beautiful  and  sacred  and  uplifting  in  our  own 
lives.     And  why  not  in  theirs? 

Books  do  n't  teach  a  man  everything.  There  is  a 
great  deal  that  can,  and  ought  to  be,  learned  outside 
of  books  in  the  school  of  life,  among  men  and  animals, 
and  with  the  flowers  and  grass  under  the  blue  sky.  I 
can  not  give  any  other  interpretation  to  certain  things 
I  have  noticed  among  my  dumb  animal  friends  and 
companions  through  this  world  than  that  the  animals, 
however  vaguely  or  dimly,  share  with  us  the  same  feel- 
ings and  sensations  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  the  same 
thoughts,  that  the  varied  experiences  of  life  give  rise 
to  and  intensify  in  our  own  minds.  They  certainly 
have  a  sense  of  mystery,  and,  rudimentary  though  their 


Io8  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

mental  apprehension  may  be,  as  compared  with  our 
own  supposedly  superior  make-up,  I  fondly  believe  that 
they  find  life  as  we  find  it,  and  perhaps  have,  in  their 
own  way,  the  same  perplexities  and  the  same  solace. 

I  think  we  should  treat  our  beasts  well.  As  I 
have  had  the  care  of  horses  in  various  places,  I  have 
noticed  how  evident  was  their  appreciation  of  any  little 
kindness  done  to  them,  as  the  gift  of  an  apple;  and 
I  have  never  found  that  I  could  manage  them  any 
the  less  easily  for  it.  The  command  to  observe  the 
Sabbath  is  just  as  binding  upon  the  horse  as  upon  his 
master.  None  of  the  ten  is  more  openly  broken  than 
that.  I  have  been  glad  to  observe  many  exceptions 
to  it,  but  it  is  not  all  of  our  beasts  of  burden  that  have 
their  Sabbaths.  Yet  the  command  went  out:  "Remem- 
ber the  Sabbath-day,  to  keep  it  holy  .  .  .  in  it 
thou  shalt  not  do  any  work,  thou,  nor  thy  son,  nor 
thy  daughter,  thy  man-servant,  nor  thy  maid-servant, 
nor  thy  cattle,  nor  thy  stranger  that  is  within  thy 
gates."  A  love  for  animals,  a  sense  of  our  kinship 
with  all  the  animate  world,  is  one  of  the  most  refining 
influences  of  life.  "The  merciful  man  is  merciful  to 
his  beast." 

When  one  looks  upon  the  proud  form  and  bearing, 
the  beautiful  eyes,  the  erect  carriage,  and  the  superb 
mane  and  tail  of  a  horse,  one  is  moved  to  the  greatest 
admiration.  It  is  no  wonder  that  the  author  of  the 
Book  of  Job  loved  the  horse.  I  like  to  see  them  roll 
and  kick  up  their  heels,  and  then  start  to  graze  at 
once  on  the  grass  and  clover.  A  horse  that  can  roll 
over  and  back  again  is,  according  to  the  old  saying, 
worth  a  clean  hundred  any  day. 

This  noblest  beast  of  burden,   the   horse,    has   re- 


THE  BARN.  109 

cently  been  written  of  by  Mr.  Jenkin  Lloyd  Jones,  in 
his  "Jess,"  with  such  tenderness  and  affection  that  no 
one  with  any  heart,  and  especially  no  one  who  has  had 
the  care  of  animals,  can  fail,  by  the  reading  of  it,  to  be 
made  more  humane  to  these  beautiful  forms  of  life,  so 
winsome,  so  loyal  when  their  service  is  appreciated,  so 
appreciative  themselves,  everywhere  about  us.  Burns's 
poem,  "The  Auld  Farmer's  New-Year  Morning  Salu- 
tation to  his  Auld  Mare  Maggie,"  expresses  this  same 
affection  of  a  man  for  his  horse  and  of  the  horse  for 
his  master.     I  think,  too,  of  "Black  Beauty." 

I  have  a  sermon  that  I  have  much  enjoyed,  "Christ 
among  the  Cattle,"  by  Frederic  R.  Marvin,  which  I 
wish  could  find  a  very  wide  circulation,  teaching,  as  it 
does,  our  responsibility  for  these  dependent  fellow- 
beings,  and  the  pleasure  that  we  should  have  in  sharing 
their  lives. 

A  man  is  rewarded  in  more  ways  than  one  for  good 
care  of  his  horses,  but  it  is  enough  to  see  them  happy 
and  enjoying  themselves.  There  is  a  poem  by  Mr. 
Hamlin  Garland,  in  his  "Prairie  Songs,"  entitled 
"Horses  Chawin'  Hay,"  these  few  stanzas  of  which 
give  the  best  expression  that  I  know  of  to  that  feeling 
of  genuine  satisfaction  which  a  man  has  in  a  barn, 
while  hearing  his  horses  crunch  out  their  appreciation 
of  his  generosity: 

"  I  tell  yeh  whiit!     The  chankin' 

W^hich  the  tired  horses  makes 
When  you  've  slipped  the  harness  off  'm 

An'  shoved  the  hay  in  flakes 
From  the  hay-mow  overhead, 

Is  jest  about  the  equal  of  any  pi-any ; 
They's  nothin'  soun's  s'  cumftabul 

As  horses  chawin'  hay. 


no 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


"I  love  t'  hear  'em  chankin', 

Jest  a-grindin'  slow  and  low, 
With  their  snoots  a-rootin'  clover 

Deep  as  their  ol'  heads  '11  go. 
It 's  kind  o'  sort  o'  restin' 

To  a  feller's  bones,  I  say. 
It  soun's  s'  mighty  cumftabul — 

The  horses  chawin'  hay. 

"  Gra-onk,  gra-onk,  gra-onk! 

In  a  stiddy  kind  o'  tone, 
Not  a  tail  a-waggin'  to  'um, 

N'r  another  sound  'r  groan — 
Fer  the  flies  is  gone  a-snoozin'. 
Then  I  loaf  around  an'  watch  'em 

In  a  sleepy  kind  o'  way, 
F'r  they  soun'  so  mighty  cumftabul 

As  they  rewt  and  chaw  their  hay." 

And  so  the  barn  has  brought  out  among  our  friends 
and  humble  servants,  the  animals.     There  is  a  pleas- 
ing sketch  upon  "An  Old  Barn,"  by  Dr.  C.  C.  Ab- 
bott, in  which  he  tells  us  of  all  the  birds  and  other 
forms   of  wild    life   still    lingering    beneath   its 
abandoned,  loosened  roof.     Wilson  Flagg  also 
wrote  upon    barns,  and  Thoreau   said    he  was 
glad  Flagg  had  chosen  for  one  of  his  themes 
such  a  subject,  for  it  smacked  a  little  of  wild 
Nature,  and   recognized   Nature  "squarely." 
Let  us  throw  down  some  hay,  then,  and 
some  straw;    and  let  us  milk  the  cows,  and 
slop  the  pigs,  and  curry  the  horses;  and  then 
let  us  feed  and  bed  them  for  the  night. 


PITCHFORK 

AND  FLAIL. 


THE   WOODS. 


"This  is  the  forest  primeval." 


—Longfellow. 


A   MObSY   LOG. 


HE  greater  part  of  the  woods  stood,  origi- 
nally, back  of  the  barn.  There  the  trees 
had  reared  their  massive  stems  for  cen- 
turies upon  the  knolls  and  along  the 
brooks ;  useful  to  the  pioneer,  in  his  day, 
and  much  more  valuable,  those  that  have 
come  down  still  standing,  to  later  genera- 
tions. Stumps  can  occasionally  yet  be 
seen  where  the  old  trees  were;  and  what 
little  of  the  vast  tract  is  now  remaining  is 
one  of  the  last  bits  left  of  the  magnificent 
primeval  forest  of  virgin  timber  which  once  covered 
all  these  hills. 

The  barn  was  new  then,  and  its  great  beams  and 
rafters  were  hewn  by  the  broadax  in  the  very  woods 
which  sheltered  it,  and  from  trees  cut,  in  those  early 
times,  freely,  to  make  clearings — the  straightest  and 
finest  trunks  being  selected  for  the  buildings,  and  the 
others  rolled  and  piled  together,  logs  and  branches,  and 
burned,  to  open  up  the  forest  for  the  fields  of  wheat. 
So  it  happens  that  the  houses  and  barns  erected  then 
have  in  them  the  most  durable  of  lumber — oak,  black 
walnut,  hard  maple,  hickory — as  commonly  as  now  we 
find  the  pine,  and  outlasting,  for  that  reason,  the  more 
recent  edifices. 

113 


1 14  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

The  old  place — a  half  section — primarily  extended 
for  more  than  a  mile  along  the  turnpike.  The  woods 
then  was  of  immense  extent,  and  was  overrun  with 
squirrels  and  'coons;  and  many  a  tale  of  prowess  has 
been  related  of  shooting  'coons  by  starlight  only,  or 
even  in  absolute  darkness,  so  keen  was  the  eyesight  of 
our  forefathers.  Even  I  can  recollect  when  the  old 
woods  was  so  big  that  from  any  point  near  its  center 
I  could  not  see  cleared  land  anywhere  ahead  through 
the  trees.  It  was  an  easy  matter  to  get  lost  in  it.  It 
seemed  then,  in  my  boyhood  days,  to  be  an  absolutely 
endless  forest,  a  gigantic  stretch  of  waving,  majestic 
monarchs,  nothing  but  trunks  and  tree-tops  everywhere 
I  gazed,  filled  with  all  the  enchantment  of  the  snare  and 
still  hunt,  and  hallowed  with  illimitable  beauty  and 
mystery.  And  it  has  not  lost  all  of  its  beauty  by  the 
removal  of  the  trees;  for,  although  there  is  more  light 
under  them,  some  of  the  trees  are  there  yet,  and  the 
old  woods  still  looks  quite  familiar  and  much  as  it 
used  to  appear. 

There  was  a  certain  portion  of  it,  near  the  high- 
way, where  the  growth  was  more  open,  and  where, 
consequently,  gypsy  caravans  used  regularly  to  encamp. 
I  well  recollect  how  my  boyish  fancy  thrilled  at  the 
first  sight  of  them,  as  their  dusky  figures  moved  to 
and  fro  beside  the  crane  and  the  kettles  in  the  weird, 
dancing  firelight,  while  gypsy  dogs  barked  warningly 
at  us  newcomers.  Surely  here  was  the  long-lost  happi- 
ness, I  thought;  or,  at  least,  a  little  of  pure  romantic 
wildness,  inclosed  among  the  dim  trees,  under  the  stars. 

Let  us  ramble,  then,  together  for  a  while  beneath 
the  leaves  on  this  fair  afternoon,  and  see  if  perchance 


"THE  VAST  CATHEDRAL  OF  GOD'S  TREES." 


THE  WOODS.  117 

we  shall  not  find  a  friendship  with  the  old  monarchs, 
or  a  hint  of  by-gone  days  and  the  life  of  the  frontier. 
Entering  beneath  the  low-hanging,  drooping 
branches  of  a  beech,  we  find  ourselves  at  once  in  the 
vast  cathedral  of  God's  trees — long  reaches  of  leafy 
solitude,  airy  vistas,  beautiful  depths  of  shade,  all  odor- 
ous with  the  scent  of  blossoms,  of  decaying  forest  litter, 
and  of  the  many  other  perfumes  of  the  woods.  The 
floor  is  carpeted  with  wild  flowers,  ferns,  grasses,  and 
innumerable  leaves,  with  downy  couches  of  moldering 
veterans  as  our  resting  places;  the  ceiling  is  of  leaf 
sprays,  composing  a  living,  interlacing  greenery,  soft- 
ened in  the  days  by  dappled  flecks  and  broad  bands 
of  mellowing  sunlight  falling  as  through  stained  glass 
windows  among  the  shadows,  and  at  night  mingling 
with  the  pale  stars  and  the  subdued,  gray  light  of  the 
moon;  the  walls  are  of  the  rough  bark  of  trees,  many- 
colored,  differing  in  hue  as  the  trees  are  separately 
tinted,  mottled  with  exquisite  lichens,  and  variegated 
with  equally  delicate  and  beautiful  vines  coiling  about 
the  trunks,  all  combining  thus  into  the  rare  old  tapes- 
tries and  mural  paintings  of  the  woods;  the  aged  boles 
themselves  being  the  pillars,  the  supports  for  this  roof- 
canopy  of  Nature's  architecture,  and,  springing  from 
them,  many  tough,  strong  arches  spanning  the  heavens, 
upholding  in  their  outspread  arms  a  fine  fretwork  of 
twigs;  the  aisles,  the  old  wood  roads,  strewn  with 
leaves.  What  a  delightful  place  it  is !  We  are  ushered 
in  by  the  praise  of  many  wood  voices  and  the  lisping 
of  leaves.  Afar  off,  as  in  some  sylvan  cloister,  in  the 
dim  recesses,  one  can  hear  the  faintly  modulated  song 
of  a  bird,  like  a  thin,  attenuated  shred  of  a  human 


Il8  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

soul,  in  the  forest — as  It  were  the  voice  of  a  priest 
deep  in  the  distance  chanting  the  litany. 

There  is  an  abandoned  path  yonder  winding  its 
way  leisurely  into  the  woods.  The  old  paths — whither 
do  they  lead?  If  we  could  but  trace  them,  and  knew 
the  feet  that  had  passed  over  them !  How  they  twine 
in  and  out  among  long-forgotten  fields  of  golden-rod, 
in  under  drooping  boughs,  or  perchance  through  a 
small  belt  of  timber,  where  the  paths  are  scarcely  dis- 
cernible now  on  account  of  the  saplings  that  have 
sprung  up  in  or  near  them.  Every  now  and  then  they 
cross  little  stretches  of  open  grass,  to  disappear  again 
into  the  thickets  and  the  dimness.  Perhaps  the  one 
now  ahead  of  us  was  once  used  as  a  cow  or  a  sheep 
path,  or  led  to  the  spring  for  water  from  a  cabin,  and 
it  may  have  served  at  times  as  a  gypsy  patteran.  How 
many  memories  cluster  about  it !  The  old  path  re- 
mains hard,  and  consequently  no  grass  grows  upon  it 
to  obliterate  it.  Even  where  the  underbrush  comes  up 
and  obscures  it,  the  meandering  footway  is  still  ap- 
parent, a  long  line  running  through  the  forest,  covered 
with  matted  fallen  leaves.  As  we  follow  it,  though 
often  the  trail  becomes  uncertain  close  at  hand  and 
dwindles  because  of  the  myriad  leaves  that  have  drifted 
about  and  filled  it,  we  can  see  that  it  borders  an  old 
rail  fence  and  leads  far  beyond  across  the  brook — 
whither? — and  why? 

These  old  zigzag,  stake-and-rider,  snake  fences  are 
the  only  ones  that  have  any  poetry  to  them,  but  they 
have;  and  as  I  have  pulled  them  apart  and  loaded  up 
the  old  lichened  rails,  useless  now  except  for  firewood, 
I   have  wondered  who  first  split  them  long  ago,   and 


THE  WOODS.  119 

who  made  the  notches,  still  visible  even  in  their  decay, 
in  which  the  upper  ones  rested.  It  is  interesting  to 
notice  the  different  kinds  of  timber  used  for  rails  in 
those  days.  Some  are  of  walnut,  actually  fine  black 
walnut  that  split,  and  used  for  rails;  some  are  of  elm, 
or  of  black  locust,  and  perhaps  there  are  a  few  oak 
rails  among  them;  but  not  many  other  kinds  of  wood 
will  last  so  long,  for  these  fences  were  built  over  fifty 
years  ago,  and  yet  serve  their  purpose  to  mark  out 
the  limits.  Generally  just  the  best  were  employed,  and 
those  only  that  split.  Hickory,  ash,  and  poplar,  how- 
ever, were  also  used  for  rails — anything  that  split 
easily — and  only  the  straightest  of  those. 

Do  you  hear  it — that  sweet,  clear  whistle  from  the 
brush?  There  is  something  very  romantic  in  the  call 
of  the  quail.  I  remember  how  as  a  boy  I  used  to  listen 
to  it  with  a  thrill  of  delight.  It  seemed  the  very  em- 
bodiment of  all  the  wild  life  of  the  woods — Bob  JFh'ite! 
Bob  White!  Bob,  Bob  White!  And  it  still  inspires 
me  when  I  hear  it. 

As  I  step  quietly  among  the  trees,  the  frisking  and 
sudden  barking  of  a  squirrel  there  on  the  black  walnut 
set  me  all  a-tremble,  and  I  softly  approach  closer  to 
watch  him.  It  seems,  at  this  instant,  as  if  all  the  ex- 
perience of  past  generations  has  all  at  once  come  upon 
me — their  pioneer  life,  their  daring,  adventurous  ex- 
ploring of  the  wilderness,  rifle  in  hand,  in  search,  too, 
for  a  hunt  after  the  game;  and  perhaps,  more  than  that, 
an  unconquerable,  ineradicable  savagery  antedating 
even  their  intrepid  quests;  an  untamed,  primitive,  na- 
tive sense  of  the  wild!  Is  it  that,  or  what  is  it,  that 
now  surges  and  surges  through  my  blood?     I  can  not 


I20  AROUxND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

resist  It,  and  I  would  not  if  I  could,  for  I  love  it.  And 
the  mournful  notes  of  the  dove  amongst  the  branches 
of  yonder  aged  hickory — they,  too,  throb  in  my  spirit, 
and  bespeak  the  utter  loneliness  and  solitude  of  the 
forest. 

To  walk  among  these  trees  and  ferns,  amid  the 
lisping  of  leaves,  or  to  lie  upon  earth's  mossy  restful- 
ness  near  a  tinkling  brook — surely,  this  Is  a  part  of 
Paradise !  A  place,  one  might  think,  at  least  for 
Theocritus,  or,  In  its  sterner  aspects,  even  for  Dante. 

In  spring,  what?  Opening  blossoms  and  greening 
wood  roads;  slopes  of  spring  beauties;  birds  bubbling 
forth  their  music — warbling,  yodeling,  caroling — peal- 
ing out  what  not  from  their  little  throats.  What  a 
variety  in  the  early  spring  colors — the  pink  and  light 
green  of  the  buds,  the  myriad  hues  of  the  blossoms  of 
the  sod  and  the  trees,  the  redbud  and  the  dogwood! 
And  the  old  woods  boasts,  besides  the  Claytonia,  the 
pepper-and-salt,  blue,  yellow,  and  white  violets,  wood 
sorrel,  sweet  William,  Jack-in-the-pulpit,  sweet  cicely, 
wild  ginseng,  Dutchman's  breeches,  squirrel  corn,  wake- 
robin,  the  true  and  false  Solomon's  seal,  and  many  other 
wild  flowers,  each  In  Its  day,  while  ferns  of  graceful 
forms — the  maidenhair,  evergreen,  woodsia,  polypody, 
rattlesnake  fern — come  pushing  up  their  curiously 
curled  fronds,  and  along  the  brooks  the  wild  ginger 
spreads  abroad  Its  wide  leaves. 

In  summer?  The  great  trees  canopied  with  their 
green  coronals,  the  long,  droning  hum  of  the  forest, 
the  rich  scent  of  mint  and  pennyroyal.  The  green- 
brier  and  climbing  sarsaparilla,  wild  morning-glories, 
the  poison  three-leafed  Ivy,   and  the  true  five-pointed 


M*^ 


,m 


Wim 


•^?^  .  -:'»^^ 


'm- 


-^• 


,-^.'    ^- 


THE  ROAD  THROUGH  THE  WOODS. 


THE  WOODS.  123 

woodbine  all  form  bowers  of  shade  above  some  bend- 
ing saplings,  or  impede  our  path  by  their  intrepid 
growth.  And  the  blackberries,  big  ebony  fellows,  look- 
ing sweet  and  delicious  there  beneath  some  vines;  while 
mulberries  hang  from  the  trees,  and  the  ground  is 
dotted  with  them  as  they  have  fallen  and  silted  among 
the  leaves  and  grasses. 

Toward  the  autumn?  Color,  and  the  instinct  for 
the  chase.  The  old  wood  roads  and  fence  corners  are 
fringed  with  a  maze  of  yellow  golden-rod  and  purple 
iron  weed.  Then,  too,  closing  the  summer,  come  the 
long  racemes  of  wild  black  cherries;  and,  later,  or 
along  with  them,  the  pendent  clusters  of  wild  grapes; 
and  the  papaws  yellow  with  the  year,  and  fall  and 
tumble  and  roll  to  their  secret  hiding  places  among  the 
weeds,  there  to  await  the  culminating  touch  of  a  hard 
black  frost  before  their  final  rich  flavor  can  be  appre- 
ciated. The  many  kinds  of  nuts,  maturing  and  enlarg- 
ing in  their  green  hulls  during  the  long  hot  months  of 
summer,  now,  in  these  cool  days,  in  the  fall  of  the  leaf, 
are  filling  the  old  woods  with  a  rare,  exquisite  fra- 
grance, while  squirrels  frisk  among  them  in  the  branches 
and  send  their  shucks  pattering  to  the  earth  as  they 
gnaw  and  munch  the  sweet  kernels.  What  wonderful 
little  pieces  of  architecture  the  acorns  are — miniature 
mosques  in  themselves !  They  strew  the  ground  every- 
where beneath  the  oaks,  and  bits  of  nibbled  shells,  too, 
almost  a  snowstorm  of  them,  where  the  squirrels  have 
been  eating.  What  a  delight  to  work  beneath  the 
many-colored  trees  in  their  autumn  glory!  The  great 
leafy  tents  and  the  stray  branches  beneath  them  are  a 
wonderful  harmony  of  color — golden,  golden  ! — one  of 


124  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

those  artistic  effects  in  Nature  which  men  have  always 
attempted  to  copy,  but  have  only  succeeded  in  suggest- 
ing— the  yellow  of  the  leaves  casting  a  beautiful  glow 
through  the  woods  in  this  season  of  the  year,  a  sub- 
dued, mellow  light,  as  of  the  reflected  splendor  of  a 
sunset — the  twilight  of  the  dying  year. 

In  winter?  Bare  boughs,  except  now  and  then  a 
branch  of  dead  beech  leaves  or  of  oak;  snow  marked 
with  tracks;  evergreen  trees  seen  at  a  distance  among 
the  hardwoods;  and  the  smoke  from  the  sugar  camp 
toward  the  early  year. 

In  all  the  seasons,  in  these  dingles  and  nooks  in  the 
woods,  one  may  perhaps  get  glimpses  of  a  too  soon 
forgotten  Eden.  How  beautiful  it  all  is,  as  I  think 
of  it! 

I  have  seen  at  least  these  birds  flitting  among  the 
trees  or  perched  on  their  staghorn  tops — the  robin  and 
chewink,  wood  thrush  and  brown  thrasher,  cardinal  and 
scarlet  tanager,  common  bluebird  and  indigo  bluebird, 
yellow-breasted  chat  and  wild  canary,  chippy  and  song 
sparrow,  ruby-throated  humming  bird,  Carolina  wren, 
blue  jay,  cedar  bird,  chickadee,  flicker,  red-headed 
woodpecker,  big  sap  sucker,  little  sap  sucker,  blackbird, 
chicken  hawk,  crow,  mourning  dove,  meadow  lark, 
woodcock,  quail.  In  the  day  turkey  buzzards  soar  and 
soar  above  the  trees,  and  in  the  night  whip-poor-wills 
and  screech  owls  cry  and  whinner.  Great  flocks  of  wild 
pigeons  used  to  roost  in  the  woods  when  they,  like  the 
buffalo,  had  life,  and  had  it  abundantly. 

And  I  have  noticed,  at  different  times,  raccoons, 
opossums,  skunks,  weasels,  gray  squirrels,  big  fox  squir- 
rels,  the   little  striped   ground   squirrel,    rabbits,   mice. 


THE  WOODS.  125 

and  moles  among  its  wild  inhabitants,  while  horses, 
cows,  sheep,  and  hogs  have  browsed  and  fed  beneath 
its  cooling  shade.  Formerly  wolves  used  to  howl  at 
its  edge,  foxes  crept  stealthily  through  it,  and  wild  cats 
crouched  on  the  limbs;  and  no  doubt  deer  have  nipped 
the  leaves  in  pioneer  times,  while  wild  turkeys  fed  on 
the  nuts.'  Among  the  reptiles,  black  snakes,  blue  racers, 
and  the  harmless  garter  snakes  glide  and  wriggle  about 
or  writhe  and  fold  among  the  stumps;  small  lizards 
and  the  larger  ones,  more  fish-like  in  their  scaly  coats, 
may  be  seen  occasionally  slipping  about  in  the  leaves 
and  over  the  logs;  and  the  slow,  solemn,  checkered 
turtles  are  to  be  found  in  the  wet  places  of  the  brooks, 
or  rarely  may  be  met  with  taking  a  deliberate  course 
across  the  woods.  Snails  of  various  sizes  slowly  make 
their  slimy  way  about  the  leaves  or  up  along  the  trunks, 
and  the  ground  is  covered  in  places  with  their  shells. 

The  old  woods  is  thus  the  home  and  the  sustaining 
nourishment  of  many  fellow  mortals,  of  whose  inter- 
esting lives  we  might  know  more  could  w^e  but  disarm 
their  fears  by  disarming  ourselves  and  cultivating  a 
friendly  familiarity  with  them. 

I  think,  too,  that  few  areas  of  its  size  will  be  found 
to  have  quite  so  many  varieties  of  trees,  not  only  in 
species  but  also  in  genera,  as  this  little  remaining  strip 
of  perhaps  some  twenty  acres  of  woodland.  Here  they 
are  according  to  families,  in  the  order  of  their  abun- 
dance : 

Aceracea — Sugar  (abundant)  and  black  maple  (a  tree 
or  so).  Many  of  these  are  "curly"  maples,  it  seems,  as  it 
turns  out  in  the  felling. 


126  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Fagaca — Beech  (plentiful).  White,  red,  and  yellow  chest- 
nut oak  (a  few  left  of  each). 

Juglandacea — Black  walnut  (frequent).  Shagbark  and 
pignut  hickory^  (a  dozen  or  so  together,  but  with  many  sap- 
lings). 

Leguminosa — Redbud,  honey  locust,  black  locust,  coffee- 
tree  (quite  a  number  of  each). 

JJlmaceee — ^White  and  slippery  elm  (both  well  represented). 

Oleaceee — Blue  and  green  ash   (not  uncommon). 

Rosacea- — Shad  bush  (one  little  sapling).  Wild  plum 
(two  thickets).  Wild  red  cherrj'  (a  small  tree).  Wild  black 
cherr}'   (some  beauties). 

Moraceo" — Red  mulberrj^  (two  big  trees,  and  a  few  small 
groves ) . 

Cornaceo' — Flowering  dogwood  (quite  noticeable  in  the 
spring).     Sour  gum  (one  solitary  specimen). 

Betulace^e — Ironwood,  or  hornbeam  (some  big  enough  for 
wagon  hubs).     Blue,  or  water,  beech  (one  tree  only). 

Celastracea — Waahoo,  or  burning  bush  (along  the  old 
wood  roads). 

AnnoTiacece — Some  scattering  thickets  of  papaws. 

Lauraceo" — A  clump  of  sassafras. 

Magnoliacea — Tulip-tree,  or  yellow  poplar  (two  speci- 
mens). 

Tiliacea — Basswood  (one  lone  medium-sized  fellow,  per- 
sisting tranquilly  near  some  giant  maples). 

And  then,  besides  these,  just  across  the  road  are  a 
couple  of  sycamores;  along  a  brook  only  a  few  rods 
away,  in  a  field  which  originally  was  a  part  of  the 
woods,  but  which  was  long  since  cleared  off,  is  a  wil- 
low; still  farther  off.  In  a  former  pasture,  where  also 
blossoms  the  wild  rose,  are  some  buckeyes;  the  common 
elderberry  and  staghorn  sumac  skirt  the  hollows  and 


:^^^. 


-^*:^ 


^^-^^    -^^^^t 


^^'^ii 


»Sfc*  •'■- 


'AN  ABANDONED  PATH." 


THE  WOODS.  129 

roadsides;  and,  to  be  seen  at  times  amongst  these  older 
generations,  are,  finally,  a  few  young  saplings  of  com- 
mon juniper  and  red  cedar,  sprung  from  seeds  dropped 
by  birds  that  had  carried  them  from  trees  planted  years 
ago  about  the  homestead.  Why,  the  old  woods  has  in 
and  about  it  nearly  forty  kinds  of  trees,  with  more 
merchantable  varieties  among  them  than  are  to  be 
found  in  the  entire  Adirondack  forest.  Of  the  smaller 
shrubs,  wild  currants,  gooseberries,  blackberries,  and 
red  and  black  raspberries  grow  profusely  in  spots.  Of 
trees  not  native  to  the  region,  but  placed  for  ornamental 
purposes  about  the  farm,  are  yet  to  be  seen  the  red 
cedar,  pitch  pine,  and  Norway  spruqe,  a  couple  of  gray 
birches,  and  a  young  persimmon-tree,  while  formerly 
two  Carolina  poplars  bordered  the  well,  and  a  fine, 
broad-leaved  catalpa  shaded  the  trough. 

Each  tree,  having  seed  in  itself,  as  the  Scriptures 
say,  erects  Itself  from  Infancy  predestined,  as  It  were, 
to  a  certain  type,  contour,  shape,  individuality;  yet  this 
resemblance  of  the  species  may  be  much  altered  in  occa- 
sional single  instances,  by  external  circumstances,  by  Its 
closeness  to  other  trees,  for  example,  and  by  the  vari- 
eties of  these  surrounding  trees,  some  being  more  favor- 
able to  its  growth  than  others,  as  they  screen  or  admit 
the  light — so  that  a  maple  in  one  part  of  the  woods 
may  appear  but  little  like  one  in  another,  and  even 
totally  different  in  outline  from  a  brother  in  the  open 
field. 

Of  these  many  varieties  of  trees  not  a  few  resemble 
each  other  in  bark  and  structure,  though  each  yet  re- 
maining different  and  preserving  distinct  Its  own  unique- 
ness.    As  a  rule,  everywhere,  trees  of  the  same  family 


130  AROUND  .AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

will  have  bark,  which  Is  at  least  similar  (as  with  the 
birches),  and  is  in  some  cases  almost  identical  (as  with 
the  young  red  and  silver  maples,  or  the  hard  and  red 
maples  when  very  old,  or  the  slippery  and  white  elms — 
and  it  takes  a  schoolboy  to  tell  a  slippery  elm  from  the 
others)  ;  but  it  is  not  uncommon  to  find  species  that 
are  sap  relations,  and  yet  clothed  in  bark  which  is 
totally  different  (as,  for  example,  the  ironwood  and 
blue  beech),  or  which  is  at  least  noticeably  so  (as  with 
the  white  and  red  oaks).  On  the  other  hand,  the  bark 
of  that  noble  beech  yonder  is  so  much  like  the  grayish 
bark  of  the  little  blue  beech  on  the  slope  there  that  they 
seem  the  same  species,  even  though  the  bark  of  the 
latter  Is  somewhat  fluted  and  wavy  in  appearance;  and 
the  leaves,  too,  are  quite  similar.  Yet  are  they  totally 
different,  in  family  and  genus  (the  one  Fagus,  the  other 
Carpinus),  In  quality  of  wood  fiber  (the  blue  beech 
being  sometimes  known  as  Ironwood),  In  their  prefer- 
ences of  soil  and  situation,  and  in  their  seed  pods  (those 
of  the  latter  being  like  hops,  whence  one  of  its  common 
names,  the  hop  hornbeam).  And  so  with  the  white 
elms  and  this  true  little  Ironwood  beside  us.  How 
alike  the  leaves  and  bark,  and  yet  how  unlike,  after 
all ;  for  the  leaves  of  the  elm  are  rough  to  the  touch 
and  thick  In  texture,  and,  if  we  cut  through  it.  Its  bark 
Is  seen  to  be  much  thicker  than  the  Ironwood's,  and  the 
wood  much  softer.  I  have  frequently  mistaken  these 
two  kinds  for  one  another  at  a  distance,  and  especially 
when  my  eyes  hav^e  been  busied  with  a  multitude  of 
other  trees,  but  on  cutting  Into  the  wood  one  can  soon 
detect  the  species,  for  the  wood  of  the  elm  Is  ring- 
porous  in  Its  nature,  while  that  of  the  Ironwood  Is  very 


THE  WOODS.  131 

hard  and  is  diffuse-porous,  and  the  bark  Is  quite  thin. 
The  sweet  gum  and  hackberry,  on  the  other  hand, 
although  of  entirely  different  families,  yet  have  a 
crinkled,  alligator-like  bark  which  at  times  is  not  at 
all  unlike.  Elsewhere  in  the  forests  I  have  noticed, 
too,  that  the  bark  of  the  balsam  and  young  white  pine 
is  similar,  and  that  of  the  red  and  white  cedar,  that  of 
the  tamarack  and  red  spruce,  and  that  of  the  shad  bush 
and  young  red  maple,  or  of  the  hard  maple  saplings 
and  mature  mountain  maples. 

All  these  can  be  distinguished  as  separate  varieties. 
I  am  speaking  only  of  their  general  exterior  to  one  first 
observing  them  in  the  woods.  The  bark  of  the  trees 
in  these  chance  resemblances  is  a  most  interesting  and 
delightful  study,  as  are  the  leaves;  for  these  singular 
similarities  in  appearance  exist  also  frequently  with  the 
leaves  of  trees.  I  used  to  consider  the  basswood  the 
male  mulberry,  so  alike  seemed  their  leaves;  and  the 
sycamore  and  tulip  tree  at  a  distance  have  foliage  not 
at  all  dissimilar,  which  is  true  also  of  the  papaw  and 
magnolia.  The  trees  thus  superficially  are  sometimes 
very  much  alike;  and  yet  each  species  preserves  intact 
its  own  little  points  of  identity,  and  retains  forever 
inviolate  its  own  uniqueness  among  the  trees. 

The  bark  of  the  trees  is  most  pronounced  in  color 
and  appearance  in  early  spring,  when  the  sap  seems 
almost  to  show  through  it,  even  through  the  rough 
outside  flakes.  In  summer  the  real  character  of  the 
bark  is  somewhat  obscured  by  the  shade  and  the  foli- 
age. In  autumn  the  bark  "sets,"  as  woodmen  say;  that 
is,  the  growth  of  the  tree  having  been  practically  com- 
pleted for  the  year,  the  bark  hardens  and  grows  close 


132      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

to  the  wood  as  the  work  of  the  sap  is  finished,  and  is 
then  not  so  easy  to  peel.  In  winter  the  woody  jacket 
forms  almost  the  sole  means  of  a  ready  identification 
of  the  trees,  and  the  study  of  it  hence  becomes  then  a 
genuine  necessity  as  well  as  a  pleasure.  It  is  when  still 
wet  and  dripping  with  rain  that  the  trees  are  most  evi- 
dently alive;  the  mottled  lichened  trunks  of  some  of 
them,  as,  for  instance,  those  especially  of  young  soft 
maples,  looking  like  huge  sleek  snakes,  with  the  spots 
and  striped  markings  left  slippery  and  fresh  and  clean, 
as  after  shedding  their  skins. 

The  distinction  between  the  different  orders  of  trees 
can  not  absolutely  be  determined  in  any  other  way  than 
by  the  inflorescence.  This  is  the  only  hard-and-fast 
line.  The  separation  of  trees  into  hardwoods  and  soft- 
woods, including  all  the  Conifera,  and  these  only,  under 
the  latter  term,  and  placing  all  other  kinds  under  the 
former  heading,  is  not  a  satisfactory  classification,  for 
many  of  these  so-called  hardwoods,  such  as  basswood 
and  poplar,  are  as  soft  as  the  conifers;  it  is  only  in 
lumbering  that  such  terms  should  be  used,  and  in  lum- 
bering the  term  softwoods  comprises  many  that  are 
not  among  the  Conifera.  Nor  are  the  words  decidu- 
ous and  evergreen  much  more  decisive;  for  it  is  inter- 
esting to  observe  that  three  of  the  coniferous  species, 
namely,  the  tamarack  and  cypress,  and  the  exotic  gingko, 
shed  their  leaves  annually,  and  that  the  flowering  and 
shiny  magnolias,  the  American  and  English  hollies, 
boxwood,  the  live  oak  (and  the  holm  oak  of  Europe), 
and  the  laurel  are  all  evergreens,  though  not  conifers. 
The  word  evergreen,  however  descriptive,  is,  too,  in 
itself  almost  a  misnomer;  for  all  trees,  even  those  not 


THE  OLD  RAIL  FENCE. 


THE  WOODS.  135 

deciduous,  do  shed  all  of  their  leaves  eventually — 
rotating  in  a  series  of  years,  dropping  some  of  them 
one  year  and  some  another,  as  the  conifers  do — even 
if  they  do  not  cast  them  annually.  For  all  popular 
usage  the  division  of  trees  into  narrow-leaf  and  broad- 
leaf  species,  or  the  sword-leaved  and  shield-leaved,  as 
Ruskin  called  them,  is  the  most  accurate  and  conven- 
ient; for  no  tree  outside  of  the  Conifera  has  narrow 
leaves  or  needles,  and  there  is  but  one  of  the  Conifera 
that  has  broad  leaves,  namely,  the  gingko,  and  this  is 
not  a  native  variety,  but  an  importation  from  Japan. 
It  is  an  interesting  fact,  however,  that  some  of  our  trees 
bear  cones,  but  yet  are  not  among  the  Conifera;  such 
as  the  birches,  alders,  and  the  tulip-tree.  Trees,  too, 
whose  flowers  and  fruit  are  similar,  and  which  there- 
fore belong  to  the  same  order,  may  have  leaves  of  an 
entirely  different  formation ;  as,  for  example,  the  red 
maple  and  box  elder,  both  of  the  Aceracea,  or  the 
apple  and  mountain  ash,  of  the  Rosacea,  or  the  white, 
red,  and  laurel  oaks.  It  is  also  possible,  as  has  been 
pointed  out,  to  find  in  the  same  genus  both  evergreen 
and  deciduous  species;  as,  for  instance,  the  live  oak  is 
an  evergreen  broad-leaf  among  a  host  of  deciduous 
brethren.  The  inflorescence  is  the  only  court  of  final 
resort. 

The  full  crown  of  that  fine  hard  maple  yonder  indi- 
cates, perhaps,  that  the  tree  is  beside  a  spring  or  a  water 
course,  and  is  in  an  opening  of  light;  which  are  indeed 
the  case.  The  little  grove  of  beeches  there  on  the  ridge 
is,  as  plainly  as  day,  a  reproduction  from  an  older  tree 
whose  nuts  had  fallen  at  times  and  rolled  some  distance 
away  on  either  side,  yet  not  so  far  but  that  we  can  dis- 


136  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

tlnguish  this  separate  clump  from  the  rest  of  the 
younger  growth.  These  thrifty  hickory  saplings  have 
sprung  from  the  fruit  of  a  majestic  shagbark  above  us, 
and  the  two  farther  down  the  slope  near  the  brook 
evidently  came  from  a  couple  of  nuts  that  bounded  off 
down  the  side  of  the  ridge.  The  reproduction  is  thicker 
on  the  south  side  of  the  ridges,  where  the  sun  reaches 
the  seeds.  If  these  smaller  saplings  could  only  be 
judiciously  thinned  out,  what  a  magnificent  forest  there 
would  be  here  in  the  years,  trees  with  glorious  old  tops 
to  them  and  without  a  dead  limb,  whose  lumber  would 
be  straight-grained  and  clean  of  knots;  whereas,  if  left 
to  grow  too  crowded  in  this  way,  some  will  surely  die, 
being  choked  by  the  others,  and  those  remaining  will 
not  always  be  the  best  trees  or  the  most  desirable. 
These  little  hickories,  and  those  ironwoods  and  dog- 
woods yonder,  ought  especially  to  be  watched;  for  the 
hickories  will  make  good  maul  or  ax  handles,  the  iron- 
woods  will  make  first-class  beetle  heads,  and  the  dog- 
woods will  make  the  best  of  light  wedges  or  gluts,  if 
seasoned  or  burnt  properly  in  the  fire.  And,  besides, 
young  trees  make  excellent  firewood,  better  than  that 
split  from  the  sap  wood  of  the  old  dead  trees;  for  the 
saplings  are  in  part  heart  wood,  which  is  more  solid 
and  gives  out  a  greater  heat.  That  would  be  another 
advantage  in  thinning  out  the  woods. 

There  is  much  difference  between  the  growth  of  a 
tree  under  forestal  conditions  and  that  of  one  unhin- 
dered in  the  open.  The  former,  unless  it  be  a  shade- 
endurer,  like  the  beech,  is  forced  because  of  the  dense 
stand  to  shoot  up  at  the  top  for  its  life.  See,  how  those 
massive  boles  have  struggled  up  into  the  light!     The 


THE  WOODS.  137 

lower  limbs  of  long  ago  have  all  died  and  fallen,  be- 
cause existence  was  denied  them  In  the  darkness  beneath 
the  thick  crowns,  these  under  branches  thus  decaying 
aside  In  a  well-ordered  system  of  natural  pruning,  so 
essential  (this  removal  of  the  superfluous  limbs)  for 
producing  the  long,  clear  trunks  suitable  for  lumber, 
and  minimizing,  too,  the  number  of  knots  In  the  wood. 
The  other,  our  brother  of  the  meadow,  is  afforded  its 
native  expansion,  develops  a  full  crown  and  limbs  close 
to  the  ground,  and  Is  therefore  of  no  value  except  as 
a  shade-tree  or  for  firewood.  Yet  the  tree  In  the 
forest — though  sometimes  distorted  because  of  other 
trees  having  fallen  upon  It,  or  because  its  roots  do  not 
have  a  fair  hold,  growing  upon  the  edge  of  a  depres- 
sion, and  hence  leaning  and  bending,  or  for  similar 
causes — has  a  wlldness  to  it,  an  appearance  of  age  and 
of  moss-clad  austerity,  which  is  likely  to  be  lacking  in 
its  neighbor  of  the  fields.  The  old  trees,  even  in  their 
nearness  to  each  other,  seem  to  stand,  after  all,  apart, 
in  silent,  unapproachable,  lofty  dignity,  time-worn  land- 
marks, the  grandeur  of  the  virgin  forest. 

What  a  place,  therefore,  the  old  woods  is  for  light 
on  the  trees'  individual  histories.  That  young  elm 
yonder,  still  alive  but  bent  to  the  ground,  and  with  Its 
tip  buried  In  the  earth,  was  evidently  brought  thus  low 
by  a  larger  tree  in  Its  downward  fall,  so  fastening  the 
sapling's  top  that  it  was  never  released.  The  dead  log 
there  testifies  to  that.  From  whatever  cause  the  old 
tree  fell,  its  descent  has  caused  new  shoots  to  spring  up 
all  over  the  deflected  sapling,  which  finally  will  detach 
itself  from  its  rotting  tip  and  partially  erect  Itself  again. 
But  its  trunk,  when  it  grows  into  a  tree,  will  be  crooked 


138  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

and  curved  to  the  point  where  one  of  the  present  shoots 
takes  the  place  of  the  main  stem,  but  from  there  up- 
ward will  be  as  straight  as  a  new  tree,  unless  some 
similar  chance  should  befall  it  later.  The  same  thing 
can  frequently  be  observed  near  streams.  The  bow- 
like trunks  of  those  overhanging  beeches  near  the  brook 
have  plainly  been  caused  by  the  constant  washing  away 
of  the  soil  from  about  their  roots,  with  the  consequent 
leaning  of  the  tree  in  the  direction  of  the  water.  A 
middle-sized  maple  near  by  is  also  bowed  over,  at  a 
notch  made  by  hunters.  Perhaps  its  hollow  interior 
had  been  the  refuge  of  a  rabbit  or  squirrel  in  a  hasty 
retreat,  and  the  game  had  then  been  cut  out  from  above, 
and  the  tree  had  at  that  point  been  weakened.  A  larger 
ash,  farther  along,  with  the  base  of  its  trunk  crushed 
and  distorted,  apparently  shows  the  effect  of  a  heavy 
weight  of  snow,  or  of  a  dead  limb,  which  perhaps  had 
fallen  from  a  larger  tree,  and  accidentally  lodged  upon 
its  tender  stem,  in  its  early  seedling  life. 

And  what  an  interesting  bit  of  curious  history  the 
face  of  the  cross-section  of  a  tree  is,  as  we  look  at  the 
old  stumps  and  the  ends  of  the  fresh  logs,  just  cut  and 
lying  in  the  woods: — the  first  early  growth;  the  remains 
of  old  dead  branches  left  in  the  dark  hard  knots;  the 
age  of  the  tree  in  its  rings;  the  double  heart  signifying 
a  breakage  at  one  time  of  the  original  stem;  the  effect 
of  varying  degrees  of  heat  and  cold,  of  climatic  con- 
ditions, and  of  severe  or  more  propitious  seasons,  as 
evidenced  by  the  broad,  expanded  rings  and  the  narrow, 
compressed,  less  visible  ones.  It  is  only  the  approxi- 
mate age  that  we  find.  A  tree  is  at  least  as  old  as  the 
number  of  its  rings,  but  I  have  reckoned  the  age  of  tiny 


THE  WOODS.  139 

suppressed  balsam  seedlings,  for  example,  with  the 
microscope,  and  found  that  it  had  taken  thirty  years 
for  their  tips  to  reach  the  level  of  a  two  foot  stump, 
so  that,  the  shape  of  the  stems  being  of  course  conical, 
the  rings  below  the  height  at  which  the  saw  was  entered 
would  therefore  not  show  on  the  tree's  cross-section. 
This  unknown  quantity  will  vary,  of  course,  with  the 
different  species,  and  with  the  location  and  exposure; 
we  must  know  our  tree  before  we  can  judge  it.  Then, 
again,  if  the  crown  is  scragly  in  old  age,  or  narrow, 
and  hence  in  an  unfavorable  season  might  not  be  able 
to  assimilate  enough  material  to  form  a  new  encircling 
woody  sheath  extending  along  the  entire  length  of  the 
tree  below,  the  actual  age  would  perhaps  be  a  few  years 
greater  than  the  number  of  rings  at  the  stump.  Thus, 
in  one  Instance,  I  personally  counted  the  rings  at  both 
ends  of  a  fourteen  foot  log  and  found  them  at  each 
end  the  same  (214  years),  which  would  ordinarily  in- 
dicate that  the  tree  had  shot  up  in  a  single  season  more 
than  fourteen  feet  In  height,  a  presumption  on  Its  face 
absurd,  and  still  more  impossible  considering  the  evi- 
dent slow  growth  of  the  tree,  the  rings  being  so  closely 
crowded  that  I  had  to  use  a  microscope  to  see  the 
separate  lines.  Then,  too,  there  is  frequently  decay 
in  the  center  at  the  butt,  and  that  (no  matter  how 
little)  will  have  depleted  the  years  it  has  reached.  If 
the  growth,  too,  Is  greater  on  one  side  than  the  other 
(and  it  will  generally  be  to  the  south,  on  account  of 
the  entrance  of  more  sunlight  from  that  quarter),  there 
will  often  be  two  woody  layers,  close  together,  for  but 
one  year's  Increase,  the  first  attempt  having  perhaps 
been  retarded  by  a  cold  snap  later  in  the  season.     I 


I40      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

have  often  noticed  this  peculiar  tendency  in  the  birches, 
especially  where  a  large  root  has  had  exceptional  mois- 
ture, but  it  will  also  occasionally  be  met  with  in  the 
case  of  apple-trees  in  orchards.  Rings  crowded  closely 
together  may  indicate  also  unusually  hard  winters,  or 
the  lack  of  sufficient  rainfall  for  several  continued  sea- 
sons (and  this  has  often  been  tested  from  the  rings  by 
the  memories  of  the  oldest  inhabitants,  and  the  story 
of  the  trees  has  been  found  a  true  one),  or  the  denud- 
ing of  the  foliage  by  fire  or  insects,  in  which  cases  it 
would  of  course  take  the  tree  some  years  to  restore  its 
normal  annual  increase  through  the  leaves.  A  scar  in 
the  interior  of  a  tree,  say  on  a  ring  eighty  years  from 
the  bark,  may  be  an  old  blaze  from  the  trails  of  the 
frontier,  or,  if  it  is  continued  throughout  the  successive 
log  sections  at  the  same  ring  (as  I  have  seen  it),  is  per- 
haps the  tale  of  a  lightning  streak,  or  another  tree,  in 
falling,  may  have  broken  a  branch  from  this  one  and 
stripped  a  long  streamer  of  the  bark  off  with  it,  this 
wound  of  former  days  having  long  since  been  shut  in 
and  healed  over  by  the  newer  growth.  If  the  tree  be 
a  maple,  we  may  perhaps  find  a  small  cavity  inclosed 
far  in  the  wood,  an  evidence  of  some  old-time  tapping 
of  years  ago,  which  had  been  grown  over  and  left  there, 
yet  even  now  to  witness  of  its  origin  by  the  spiral  ribs 
of  the  auger.  It  brings  along  with  it  all  the  long  train 
of  memories  of  the  sugar  camp,  and  of  the  humor  and 
"sparking"  of  the  best  times  in  the  world,  the  hours 
spent  about  the  fire  when  the  sap  is  boiling.  And  so 
these  disks  of  the  logs,  can  we  but  Interpret  them,  are 
a  record  of  the  tree's  life,  invisible  and  burled  while 


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THE  WOODS.  143 

the  tree  stands,  but  ineffaceable  and  permanent  as  long 
as  the  wood  lasts  and  is  not  decayed. 

Yonder,  near  the  light  of  a  clearing,  we  can  see 
the  sugar  camp  now.  It  is  the  most  romantic  nook  in 
the  woods.  A  path  leads  to  it  from  tree  to  tree,  issuing 
at  last  in  the  camp,  and  a  sled  road  winds  about  through 
the  bush.  The  camp  harmonizes  well  with  the  woods, 
being  made  largely  of  logs  and  poles  with  the  bark  still 
on,  picturesquely  put  together  by  supporting  crotches 
with  the  fine  instinct  and  art  of  the  true  woodsman. 
Beneath  its  sheltering  roof  each  year  are  put  to  test  in 
the  right  season  all  the  old-time,  and  the  best,  ways 
of  making  maple  syrup,  and  the  great  kettles  boil  and 
simmer  many  a  long  night,  while  merry  are  the  laughter 
and  sport  under  the  stars. 

I  have  chopped  into  trees  at  the  sides  of  old  blazes, 
in  order  to  see  how  many  years  of  growth  it  had  taken 
to  cover  them,  and  it  is  always  an  interesting  experi- 
ment. Some  that  I  investigated  had  been  there  over 
fifty  years,  and  were  yet  discernible ;  some,  less.  I  have 
heard  of  a  tree  in  a  well-known  locality  that  was  cut 
into  for  this  very  purpose,  in  order  to  ascertain  the  age 
of  old  blazes  supposed  to  hav'e  been  made  upon  it  and 
to  be  shut  in  within  the  wood,  and  marks  of  the  ax 
were  found  two  hundred  years  back,  gashed  there  long 
ago  by  Indians,  as  the  traditions  of  the  place  asserted. 
Lauder,  in  one  of  his  notes  to  Gilpin's  "Forest  Scenery," 
says  that  there  are  also  on  record  instances  of  "curious 
discoveries"  made  in  the  felling  of  some  trees  in  Eng- 
land toward  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  such  as 
the  marks  of  the  cyphers  of  James  I,  William  and 
Mary,  and  King  John   (thus  denoting  the  reign  when 


144  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOxMESTEAD. 

the  letters  were  stamped),  far  on  the  inside,  a  foot, 
nine  inches,  and  eighteen  inches  respectively  within  the 
trees,  and  dating,  of  course,  long  before  their  downfall. 
I  have  also  followed  up  the  old  lines  of  some  of  the 
first  government  surveys  in  the  West,  the  blazes  of 
which  were  forty-five  years  of  age  and  over;  and  it  was 
not  always  easy  to  distinguish  the  scars  of  the  bruises 
and  scrapings,  left  perhaps  by  one  tree  falling  against 
another,  from  the  original  blazes,  so  indistinct  had 
these  become  in  the  years.  In  many  cases  the  only  way 
by  which  we  could  with  certainty  recognize  the  blaze 
from  a  scar  was  by  the  faint  score  marks  of  the  ax 
still  visible  in  the  wood,  or  by  the  fact  that  the  edges  of 
the  blaze  on  the  bark,  would  always  be  smooth  where 
the  ax  had  shaved  into  the  tree,  and  not  rough  and 
uneven,  as  in  a  scar.  A  line  tree,  too,  will  almost  al- 
ways be  blazed  on  both  sides,  and  there  will  be  others 
in  a  continuous  direction  near  it,  whereas  a  tree  is  sel- 
dom similarly  bruised  on  both  sides,  and  there  are  in 
any  event  not  many  such  in  a  straight  course.  It  was 
very  interesting  to  rediscover  and  restore  these  lines 
through  the  woods.  The  figures  of  the  section,  range, 
and  township  could  still  be  seen  on  the  corner  trees, 
half  a  foot  or  more  inside  the  tree,  on  the  face  of  the 
old  blaze,  almost  hidden  now  by  bark  and  the  increase 
of  new  wood  bulging  in  at  the  sides.  I  have  also  traced 
and  reblazed  with  fresh  slashes  of  the  ax,  for  my  own 
use,  old  trails  through  the  forest,  made  by  the  Indians 
who  had  lived  there  or  by  hunters  and  trappers.  I 
think  a  beech  holds  a  blaze  the  longest  of  any  of  the 
trees,  and  is  the  best  to  use  on  that  account,  if  on  the 
line,  and  the  easiest  for  the  ax.     It  is  the  one  most  fre- 


THE  WOODS.  145 

quently  blazed  by  old  woodsmen.  A  beech,  however, 
for  some  reason,  has,  singularly,  more  bruises  and  dis- 
torted growths  on  its  bark  than  any  other  tree,  and 
these  curious  distortions  frequently  resemble  a  blaze; 
but  the  bark  ordinarily  is  smooth,  while  the  maple, 
which  otherwise  shows  the  blaze  quite  well,  has  such 
rough,  flaky,  uneven  bark  that  after  some  years'  growth 
the  old  strokes  of  the  ax  become  too  indistinct  for  a 
ready  sight.  It  is  decidedly  an  exhilarating  experience 
to  blaze  one's  way  into  the  wilderness,  and  then  to 
retrace  the  line  of  yellow  patches  through  the  darken- 
ing forest;  and  you  will  have  done  your  work  well  if 
you  shall  not  at  some  time  behind  the  leaves  lose  sight 
of  the  trail  for  an  instant  before  you  reach  camp. 

What  a  tangle  a  big  tree  is  that  has  fallen  by  the 
wind  or  from  decay !  Great  weeds  grow  up  among  the 
dead  limbs  and  branches,  and  sough  in  the  wind's  wild 
requiem ;  and  the  whole  of  it  has  a  look  of  age.  The 
bark  scales  off,  and  the  old  wood  beneath  it  is  filled 
with  ants  and  borers,  and  Its  surface  is  furrowed  and 
scrawled  over  and  criss-crossed  with  the  wandering 
paths  of  Insects  worn  In  channels  into  it — the  familiar 
hieroglyphics  of  Nature. 

And  the  old  logs — how  long  have  they  been  there, 
lying  in  the  sunlight  and  shadow  and  under  the  snow, 
decaying  through  the  years,  and  enriching  the  soil  with 
the  best  of  fertility?  What  chance  of  wind  or  storm 
or  old  age  brought  them  to  the  ground?  Or  perhaps 
the  misfortune  of  being  a  bee  or  a  'coon  tree  was  the 
cause  of  their  downfall,  or  a  fellow  monarch,  in  the 
felling,  may  have  brought  another  with  itself  to  the 
earth.     Hunters,  perhaps,  have  rested  upon  it,  with  a 


146 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


fire  close  at  hand  and  a  brace  of  squirrels  hung  on  a 
sapling,  or  it  may  have  been  the  retreat  for  children  on 
a  picnic.  And  now,  finally,  mosses  and  lichens  encircle 
it  with  a  mantle  of  green  and  velvet,  and  ferns — the 
tresses  of  the  wilderness — are  springing  from  it  and 
beautifying  the  woods  with  their  delicate  fringes  and 
graceful,  tender  lacework. 


A  PROSTRATE  MONARCH. 


There  Is  no  sound  In  Nature  more  majestic  and 
impressive  than  the  fall  of  one  of  these  massive  mon- 
archs  of  the  forest.  One  can  get  a  hint  of  its  tottering 
by  the  swaying  of  the  tops.  Soon — in  a  moment — a 
deep  shriek  Is  heard  as  it  splits  from  the  stump,  and  Is 
wrenched  away  finally,  cut  off  perchance  by  the  ax  or 
saw;  and  a  loud  cr-r-rash,  as  it  tears  its  way  with  a  re- 
luctant swish  through  the  branches  of  those  trees  near- 
est it,  and  rushes  toward  the  ground,  losing  some  of  its 


-  ■■•'^-r**' 


A  SEAT  IN  THE   FOREST. 


THE  WOODS.  149 

own  limbs  perhaps  in  the  descent;  and  then,  at  last, 
plunges  headlong  to  the  earth,  with  a  thud  and  a  great 
muffled  boom  heard  miles  away !  Homer  felt  the  maj- 
esty of  it  centuries  ago,  and  one  of  his  finest  similes 
likens  the  death  of  Hector  to  the  downfall  of  an  oak. 
A  man  can,  it  is  true,  in  this  way,  by  a  few  strokes  of 
the  ax,  undo  forever  the  long,  slow  work  of  a  hundred 
years.  Yet,  in  its  place  and  within  decent  restriction, 
there  is  no  pleasanter  labor  than  work  in  the  woods, 
especially  beneath  the  leaves  of  autumn,  in  the  cool  of 
the  year;  and  there  is  no  rude  music  more  attractive  to 
the  ear  than  the  echoed  chopping  of  an  ax  and  the  ring 
and  rasp  of  the  crosscut  saw. 

Thoreau,  in  "The  Maine  Woods,"  speaks  of  the 
sound  of  a  tree  falling  in  a  dense  forest  on  a  still  night 
as  being  "singularly  grand  and  impressive,"  and  thus 
describes  it: 

"Once,  when  Joe  had  called  again,  and  we  were  listening 
for  moose,  we  heard,  come  faintly  echoing,  or  creeping  from 
afar,  through  the  moss-clad  aisles,  a  dull,  dry,  rushing  sound, 
with  a  solid  core  to  it,  yet  as  if  half  smothered  under  the  grasp 
of  the  luxuriant  and  fungus-like  forest,  like  the  shutting  of 
a  door  in  some  distant  entry  of  the  damp  and  shaggy  wilder- 
ness. If  we  had  not  been  there,  no  mortal  had  heard  it.  When 
we  asked  Joe  in  a  whisper  what  it  was,  he  answered,  'Tree 
fall.'  " 

Sometimes  stones,  even  large  rocks,  will  be  found 
almost  totally  concealed  within  the  trees,  having  been 
lodged  there  somehow  in  the  past  and  been  grown  over 
by  the  steady  accretion  of  the  years.  I  have  seen  rocks 
of  some  size  absolutely  imbedded  among  the  roots  of 
a  great  oak,  which  had  wound  its  huge  roots  around 


I50 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


and  around  their  mossy  surfaces  until  they  were  en- 
twined within  a  very  network  of  the  woody  veins.  Or 
perhaps  a  seed  has  fallen  into  a 
crevice  or  onto  a  little  ledge  of 
rock,  and  has  there  sent  out  its 
roots  into  the  air,  and  these,  reach- 
ing down  toward  the  moist  earth, 
have  encircled  the  rock,  and  gripped 
it,  and  at  last  have  wrapped  about  it 
with  all  the  strength  of  the  years, 
while  the  stem  of  the  tree  towers 
above  and  the  rock  is  completely 
Imprisoned  and  enfolded  within  the 
giant  arms.  I  have  known  of  boys 
who  have  placed  stones  of  consider- 
able dimension  in  the  crotches  of 
trees,  some  feet  from  the  ground, 
and  then  have  watched  with  delight 
the  gradual  but  none  the  less  firm 
encroachment  of  the  bark  about 
them  as  they  finally  became  set  in 
the  wood,  much  to  the  wonder  and 
astonishment  of  those  not  ac- 
quainted with  this  mysterious  work- 
ing of  Nature.  I  have  known  also 
of  others,  and  these  not  always  so 
young,  who  have  taken  especial  de- 
light in  the  twisting,  or  braiding,  of 
two  small  adjoining  saplings  with 
each  other,  so  that  they  might  be- 
come in  the  future  a  veritable  mystery  among  the 
growths  of  Nature;  and  I  have  seen  trees  of  a  good 
girth  which  had  so  been  entwined  in  their  youth,  and 


TWISTED  TREES. 


UNITED  SYCAMORES. 


THE  WOODS. 


153 


in  their  old  age  were  not  divided.  If,  too,  in  a  dense 
thicket  of  growth,  one  branch  shall  closely  press  against 
another,  by  the  constant  rubbing  and  scarifying  of  the 
bark  by  the  wind  and  the  consequent  irritating  stimulus 
toward  a  bulging  of  the  bark  at  the  wound,  trees  of  the 
same  species  will  rarely  join  their  arms  together,  twin- 
like, thus  singularly 
uniting  themselves 
into  one  tree,  but  I 
have  never  seen  the 
cicatrix  completed 
with  trees  of  a  dif- 
ferent sap. 

I  know  of  a  row 
of  great  elms, 
planted  in  memory 
of  a  Revolutionary 
soldier,  in  whose 
sides  large  iron 
staples  were  driven, 
with  rings  in  them, 
for  the  hitching  of 
horses;  and  these 
have  now  altogether 
been  enmeshed 
within    the    trees,    a 

few  eyes,  or  dents,  in  the  bark  being  the  only  external 
indication  of  their  presence. 

Perhaps  you  will  come  across  in  your  work  an  old 
fire  scar  at  the  butt  of  a  tree,  now  healed  over  by  the 
slow  process  of  the  rings,  pretty  well  covered  by  the 
newer  growth  and  well  hidden  from  the  outside,  and 
yet  showing  that  some  one  had  been  there  years  ago, 


ALONG   THE    BROOKS. 


154  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

perhaps  an  Indian  burning  the  forest  for  game,  or  a 
solitary  hunter  or  trapper,  or  an  emigrant  who  had 
camped  for  the  night.  Rarely  a  deer  lick  may  yet  be 
found  in  the  pastures,  and  the  cattle  resort  thither  in 
springtime  to  get,  as  best  they  can,  the  last  lingering 
vestiges  of  the  original  salty  flavor.  Old  flint  arrow- 
heads, too,  concealed  beneath  the  matted  leaves,  but 
found  occasionally  on  the  slopes,  tell  the  tale  of  the 
red  man,  while  along  the  brooks,  amongst  the  limestone 
shelving  ledges,  brachiopods  and  the  various  shells 
speak  to  us  of  a  still  more  distant  past. 

There  used  to  be  a  big  hollow  tree,  so  runs  tra- 
dition, somewhere  in  the  woods  in  this  region  of  the 
Great  Miami,  in  which  wild  turkeys  held  carnival  and 
had  their  nests ;  and  the  pioneer  would  follow  the  sound 
of  their  calling,  and  perhaps  find  his  concealment  in 
the  tree,  and  with  his  pipestem  whistle  the  game  back 
to  him.  There  is  an  old  story,  too,  still  extant,  that  an 
Indian  used  to  hide  in  this  tree  and  imitate  the  notes 
of  the  bird,  by  this  allurement  decoying  settlers  some- 
times to  their  death;  but  that  the  savage  himself  met  a 
bullet  in  his  ambush  from  some  pioneer  rifleman  hid 
in  the  brush,  and,  leaping  out  from  his  concealment, 
fell  dead  to  the  ground  below. 

It  was  not  so  far  away,  in  another  woods,  that  a 
farmer,  while  cutting  his  fuel,  found  a  number  of  bul- 
lets imbedded  in  a  mass  in  the  very  center  of  a  limb, 
having  been  shot  there,  as  he  supposed,  at  a  knot  or  a 
squirrel,  and  then  covered  over  by  the  new  growth  of 
the  later  years.  Doubtless  pounds  of  lead  might  be 
found  in  the  branches  and  trunks  of  the  trees  here- 
abouts, could  we  but  dig  it  out,  sent  there  by  generation 
after  generation  of  hunters. 


THE  WOODS.  155 

A  good  many  familiar  trees  have  disappeared  from 
the  old  woods.  I  was  out  the  other  day,  and  could  not 
but  notice  the  absence  of  some  of  those  most  fondly 
cherished — gone  forever;  as 

"  when  some  fond  and  spiritual  bell 
Tolled  in  the  memory,  ceases." 

The  big  pignut  is  gone,  the  tallest  tree  in  the  woods, 
together  with  some  of  the  largest  hickories  and  oaks, 
and  the  beeches  with  initials  cut  upon  them  long  ago, — 
all  made  over  into  saw  logs,  or  blown  down  by  the 
storms,  or  cut  into  wood  for  the  winter  fire.  Some 
of  the  big  black  walnuts,  however,  under  which 
the  boys  studied  their  lessons  in  former  days,  have  now 
been  made  into  valued  furniture:  as  into  decorative 
mantels;  or  into  polished  tables,  at  one  of  which  I 
daily  break  my  fast;  but  one,  especially,  that  I  think  of, 
into  an  exquisitely  hand-carved  Shakespeare  cabinet, 
adorned,  in  delicately  wrought  relief,  upon  its  doors, 
with  carvings  of  the  hawthorne  and  a  sprig  of  oak 
from  Windsor  Woods,  and  its  sides  modeled  with 
Puck's  and  Perdita's  flowers,  with  a  scrolled  inscription 
of  Ophelia's  saying,  ''There's  rosemary,  that's  for  re- 
membrance; .  .  .  there  is  pansies,  that 's  for 
thoughts,"  in  surface  work  upon  its  face,  and  paintings 
of  Touchstone  and  Audrey  in  the  Forest  of  Arden  on 
its  panels — the  whole  surmounted  with  Shakespeare's 
bust,  and  the  cabinet  itself  being  the  repository  of 
valued  Shakespearean  relics,  with  many  sets  of  his 
plays,  and  various  books  and  lives  relating  to  his  work. 
Thus  the  old  woods  has  contributed  to  the  refinements 
and  aesthetics  and  amenities  of  life,  as  well  as  to  the 
living  necessities  of  lumber  and  fuel. 


156 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


Many  a  pedestrian,  also,  in  a  stroll  through  it,  has 
cut  for  himself  a  handsome  staff  or  a  cane.  The  hick- 
ories have  always  been  with  us  the  favorites  for  this 
purpose,  for  their  strength  and  the  nice,  straight  char- 
acter of  the  saplings,  and  because 
of  the  undeviating  adherence  of  the 
household  to  the  tenets  of  Andrew 
Jackson — "Old  Hickory"  himself. 
Some  of  the  trees,  too,  have  died, 
but  are  yet  standing,  and  still  others 
have  leafless,  dying  branches  at 
their  tops  (killed  perhaps  by  the 
bullets),  and  these  spikes  and 
spreading  staghorns  of  dead  limbs 
jutting  up  above  the  green  crowns 
are  an  unfailing  sign  of  the  begin- 
ning of  the  death  of  the  trees.  First 
the  tops  decay,  and  then  the  larger 
branches  and  limbs,  and  finally  the 
trunk;  and  it  is  not  so  many  years 
after  these  stagheads  first  appear 
when  you  will  find  the  tree  dead  and 
vines  twining  in  a  living  wreath 
about  it.  I  felt  the  saddest  when  I 
found  that  there  were  staghorns  on 
"the  old  home  tree."  It  was  a  fine 
large  hickory  in  the  very  center  of 
the  woods,  which  seemed  to  be  a 
never-failing  rendezvous  for  squir- 
rels; for,  whenever  squirrels  were 
not  to  be  seen  or  heard  anywhere 
else  in  the  whole  woods,  if  we  would 


THE  OLD  HOME  TREE. 


THE  WOODS.  157 

only  repair  to  it  we  would  always  find  them  on  "the 
old  home  tree."  It  apparently  led  a  charmed  life, 
however,  like  General  Washington,  for  I  never  could 
get  a  squirrel  from  it,  though  I  have  shot  them  in  all 
the  other  trees  around  it.  The  older  trees  will  not 
last  more  than  a  hundred  years  longer,  at  the  utmost; 
but  the  woods  will  renew  itself,  for  the  undergrowth 
of  saplings  is  enough  for  a  forest.  Innumerable  tiny 
seedlings — of  maple,  beech,  oak,  ash,  and  all  the  other 
trees  in  the  woods — dot  the  ground  everywhither  be- 
neath their  elder  brothers,  themselves  also  in  time  to 
grow  into  magnificent  tossing  veterans,  and  finally  to 
lie  a-moldering  in  the  sod.  But  a  part  of  the  virgin 
woods  remains,  at  any  rate,  and  the  beauty  and  lurking 
wonder  of  its  paths  are  even  more  precious  in  these 
days  of  ruthless  destruction.  There  are  still  sufficient 
sugar-trees  left  to  make  maple  syrup  for  this  genera- 
tion. 

The  old  woods,  in  its  way,  helps  along  the  rainfall 
by  its  constant  diffusion  of  moisture;  instead  of  letting 
it  run  off  immediately  into  the  brooks  and  thus  swell 
and  flood  the  rivers,  it  retains  the  wet  in  the  soil,  as  it 
percolates  through  the  fallen  leaves  and  among  the 
roots;  it  acts  as  a  splendid  wind-break  for  the  home- 
stead; in  spring  it  shields  innumerable  wild  flowers;  in 
the  summer  bees  drone  away  about  the  trunks;  in  au- 
tumn it  sheds  abroad  the  yellow  and  scarlet  of  its 
frosted  leaves,  and  squirrels  frisk  among  the  hickories; 
and  in  winter  its  carpet  of  snow  is  dotted  with  the 
tracks  of  rabbits  that  have  nestled  in  its  logs,  while 
the  farmer  drives  his  sled  up  the  pathway  piled  high 
with  seasoned  wood  for  the  great  fireplace.     New  sap- 


IS8 


AROUND  AX  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


lings  arc  growing  up  everywhere,  and  shoots  from  the 
old  stiimps  are  alwa\-s  sprouting  up  into  the  light,  to 
perpetuate  its  usefulness  and  to  form  another  forest, 
when  this  shall  ha\-e  gone  into  de- 
cay or  shall  have  l>een  cut  down  for 
man's  utility.  What  would  we  do 
without  the  old  woods?  WTiat  a 
\-ast  product  the  forest  is — ^these 
immense  tree  growths,  and  their 
tough,  fibrous  stems  and  leafy  can- 
opies— made  over  into  a  ser\nceable 
form  by  the  lumberman,  and  to  be 
preserved  and  studied  by  the  for- 
ester; and  yet  existing,  after  all,  not 
-  :-.'s  enjoyment  alone,  but  for 
:  ig  of  all  the  life  about 

jes  not  this  old  woods, 
usefulness  to  us,  typify 
c-i-     ..-_:"      -  :s    of   timber   every- 

-  :   "<  broad  land? 

-  " .  -i  with  the  age  of 
J  rs  it  has  taken  to 

elevate  ther.  r  proud  position, 

-ind  some  w:..  -itury  longer, 

even  when  c.::  .         .  _:;J  made  over 

into   useful    ..:;:  :  rr.     Some  of   the 

big  oaks  lateiv  felled  in  the  woods 

were  over  three  hundred  years  of 

age.     One   of  the  large   elms   was 

nearLy  as  old.     And  I  have  been  in  the  Adirondacks, 

and  tn   some   of  the  great  oak   and    pine   forests  of 

the  South  and  West,  and  have  found  the  trees  even 


'rrS5l.\.N  O?  THKiJ  HTL'NDiJD. 


THE  WO(M)6L  159 

older  dim  dus,  and  stifl  sonod.  The  U^^AnA*  cspc- 
dallj,  wiien  dbc  giowdi  had  been  vrrf  g^adsal,  dK  tiee 
hairii^  been  soppfcsBcd  bf  die  pRpondefawc  <if  alude 
cm  die  poit  of  die  laiger  grades  :dMHit  it,  were  sdD  pcr- 
fecdj  hcald^;  while  die  -^fMinl  trees 
wbidi  had,  on  aj-taiiil  of  dieir  mdtmdtn 
of  figltf,  realized  a  modi  giculn  hc^^  aad  a 
wider  (fiameter  imxcasc,  had  cidbcr  bc;euB  to  decaj 
zfttr  dieir  maluniy  had  cnne,  or,  their  nii  ilii|niii^ 
bfancfaes  having  been  rjiigln  in  die  winds,  had  bcem 
Uown  down  to  make  TOtxa  far  odicrs  jiwifji  ■  Bnt 
dierc  it  is,  die  lecDfd  erf  die  fcais,  in  the  hig&.  There 
thcjr  have  stood  for  hondreds  of  yean,  these  woodf 
orgnusms,  while  gi'miJlKt  alter  grneijlion  oi  men, 
from  the  In^an  to  the  pioneer,  and  from  the  setdcr 
to  the  mamifactiirer,  have  passed  beneath  their  sheher- 
ii^  roof  and  made  use  of  the  best:  of  them.  Behold 
them  in  their  ai^iist:  majesty,  as  they  sway,  and 
the  trees! — those  serried,  farrowed, 
with  their  cnocmoas  waves  of  lowing,  billowy  green! 
I  have  coonted  the  rings  of  trees  whidi  woe  here,  and 
woe  of  fair  size,  when  Cofamdms  iist:  came  to  the  Xnr 
WofM,  and  the  seqnoias  of  the  West  are  as  old  as  the 
pynmnds  and  have  seen  m  their  wild  forest  fife  the 
whole  ImtiMV  of  the  Cluistiin  era. 

Bryant's  Encs  in  ""A  Forest  Hvnm^  have  come  to 
my  diOD§jbL    Let  OS  read  them: 


l6o  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die — but  see  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms." 

A  woods  suggests  everything  that  is  poetic.  It  is 
teeming  with  all  sorts  of  life;  it  gives  forth  the  purest 
oxygen;  it  is  a  bower  of  greenness  in  summer,  and  of 
beautiful  darker  colors  in  autumn.  One  feels  always 
in  health  when  in  the  woods,  and  to  be  able  to  feel  a 
love  for  the  woods  is  a  pretty  sure  indication  of  a  sound 
and  healthy  life. 

Yet  there  Is  much  difference  in  the  attitude  of  men 
toward  trees  and  toward  a  forest.  The  worth  of  a  tree 
to  some  men  is  its  commercial  value  in  merchantable 
lumber,  and  a  forest  therefore  is  to  be  considered  in 
the  light  of  finance;  to  others  a  tree  Is  an  object  merely 
of  scientific  investigation  as  a  part  of  the  progress  of 
natural  selection;  to  still  others  It  Is  of  intense  interest 
as  a  preserver  of  shade  and  health,  and  its  growth  is  to 
be  studied,  and  the  growth  and  variation  of  forests 
also,  with  a  view  to  the  preservation  of  our  timber  and 
the  Introduction  of  suitable  tree  plantations,  and  thus 
the  conservation  of  our  water  supply  and  the  better- 
ment of  life;  to  the  farmer  It  Is  of  Immediate  utility 
for  all  the  usages  of  his  farm;  by  the  hunter  it  is  re- 
garded with  mystery  and  constant  observation  as  the 
probable  lurking  place  of  game;  to  many  it  is  an  object 
of  wonderful  natural  beauty,  and  a  spot  for  all  sorts 
of  legends  and  associations;  while  to  others  still  it  is 
an  emblem  of  the  tree  of  life,  and  of  the  river  which 
forever  floweth  in  the  City  of  God. 

The  farmer,  especially,  gathers  his  firewood  and 
gets  his  maple  syrup  and  sugar  from  the  trees,  handles 


THE  WOODS.  i6l 

for  his  mauls  and  axes,  fence  rails,  stakes,  posts,  poles 
for  odd  uses  generally,  beech  leaves  for  his  bed  ticks, 
nuts  and  bright  leaves  in  autumn,  and  wild  flowers 
almost  all  the  year  round.  Indeed,  a  farm  without  a 
wood  lot  is  deprived  of  much  that  makes  country  life 
attractive  and  possible. 

The  most  majestic  living  organism  is  a  tree.  Did 
you  ever  think  how  large  a  tree  is?  We  seldom  think 
of  them  as  being  very  large;  and  yet  the  wood  con- 
tained in  the  trunk  and  branches  of  a  single  beech  or 
maple  takes  up  vastly  more  space  than  does  the  body 
of  a  man,  and  their  green  leaves,  if  placed  side  by  side, 
would  occupy  half  an  acre.  It  has  been  estimated  that 
a  good-sized  maple  with  thick  tops  will  put  forth  over 
four  hundred  thousand  leaves  in  a  single  year.  Yet  we 
do  not  fear  the  trees,  but  we  enjoy  their  shade  and 
color  in  their  lives,  gather  their  fruit  in  its  season,  and, 
when  they  die,  or  even  before,  little  man,  with  his 
powerful  mind,  saws  and  chops  them  up  for  fuel  and 
lumber,  and  sends  them  into  all  parts  of  the  world  and 
for  all  purposes. 

A  tree,  too,  is  always  graceful.  Even  when  some 
of  its  branches  are  stripped  off  or  broken,  it  will  not 
submit  to  such  a  deformity,  but  will  send  out  new 
shoots  to  take  their  place,  which  will  soon  grow  and 
thrive  in  towering  masses  of  green  or  depend  in  droop- 
ing, delicate  sprays,  thus  even  in  its  misfortune  shaping 
to  itself  again  a  characteristic  symmetry  of  form.  So 
each  one  also,  and  especially  when  in  leaf,  displays 
its  natural  qualities  of  contour,  from  the  tented,  pagoda- 
like appearance  of  the  horse-chestnuts  on  the  lawn  to 
the  plume-like,  feathery  ferns  of  the  elms. 


1 62  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

A  tree ! — Its  mossy  roots  and  taproots  buttressing 
that  part  of  It  above  the  ground;  Its  tiny  rootlets  and 
root  hairs  penetrating  Into  the  Interstices  of  the  soil  and 
there  finding  life,  almost  feeling  their  way,  one  might 
think,  with  a  sense  of  touch,  and  pushing  aside  the 
diminutive  clods  to  make  a  place  for  it  to  absorb  and 
assimilate  moisture  for  its  growth;  the  great  tough 
woody  stem,  or  trunk,  acting  as  a  support  for  the 
whole  and  spreading  aloft  Into  God's  sunlight  and  air, 
covered  with  rough  bark,  the  home  of  myriads  of  In- 
sects and  of  other  animal  and  plant  life,  and  finally 
expanding  into  a  multitude  of  strong  arms  and  an  In- 
finite, fern-like,  fingery  penciling  of  branches  and  twigs; 
these  clothed  in  a  beautiful  canopy  of  green  leaves,  with 
the  most  delicate  and  exquisite  venation,  toying  with 
the  air,  breathing  in  life  for  the  tree  and  exhaling  life 
for  us — ah !  surely  Ruskin  was  right  when  he  said, 
"What  a  wonderful  thought  of  God  was  that  when 
He  thought  a  tree!" 

How  much  there  is  In  a  tree  that  Is  of  Interest  and 
perennial  delight !  What  caused  those  little  scratches 
on  the  bark?  Birds,  or  squirrels?  Or  perhaps  'coons? 
And  where  have  they  gone,  or  do  they  still  live  In  the 
old  tree?  Where  are  the  innumerable  ants  going,  and 
is  the  old  tree  a  regular  honeycomb  of  their  tunnels 
and  trails?  How  furrowed  the  bark  is,  and  how  aged 
It  looks !  Its  branches,  too,  doubtless  have  a  few  birds 
in  them  now,  that  we  can  not  see  because  of  the  leaves, 
and  perhaps  more  than  one  nest  is  concealed  amid  Its 
great  growth  of  twigs.  A  large  tree,  in  its  time,  may 
have  been  the  home  of  two  or  three  kinds  of  squirrels, 
say  of  a  dozen  families  of  birds,  of  'possums  and  'coons, 


THE  WOODS.  163 

of  lizards,  of  snakes  and  ants  at  its  roots,  and  with  per- 
haps a  screech  owl  In  a  hollow  limb.  It  will  also  have 
been  the  life  of  fungi  and  of  mosses,  and  the  home  of 
many  Insects,  and  of  old  grubs  and  borers.  A  tree 
which  is  at  all  old  is  a  veritable  mine  for  speculation. 
And,  when  it  dies,  it  is  cut  down,  and  gives  warmth  to 
the  farmhouse  in  the  winter  fire,  after  perhaps  a  hun- 
dred years  or  more  of  useful  existence  to  the  living 
world. 

I  am  reminded,  in  this  connection,  of  a  passage  that 
Thoreau  has  written,  words  that  are  among  the  most 
beautiful  in  the  literature  of  Nature,  at  the  close  of  his 
"Walden:" 

"Ever>^  one  has  heard  the  story  which  has  gone  the  rounds 
of  New  England,  of  a  strong  and  beautiful  bug  which  came 
out  of  the  dr)'  leaf  of  an  old  table  of  apple-tree  wood,  which 
had  stood  in  a  farmer's  kitchen  for  sixty  years,  first  In  Con- 
necticut, and  afterwards  In  Massachusetts — from  an  egg  de- 
posited in  the  living  tree  many  years  earlier  still,  as  appeared 
by  counting  the  annual  layers  beyond  It;  which  was  heard 
gnawing  out  for  several  weeks,  hatched  perchance  by  the  heat 
of  an  urn.  Who  does  not  feel  his  faith  In  a  resurrection  and 
Immortality  strengthened  by  hearing  of  this?  Who  knows 
what  beautiful  and  winged  life,  whose  egg  has  been  buried  for 
ages  under  many  concentric  layers  of  woodenness  In  the  dead, 
dry  life  of  society,  deposited  at  first  In  the  alburnum  of  the 
green  and  living  tree,  which  has  been  gradually  converted  Into 
the  semblance  of  its  well-seasoned  tomb — heard  perchance 
gnawing  out  now  for  years  by  the  astonished  family  of  man, 
as  they  sat  round  the  festive  board — may  unexpectedly  come 
forth  from  amidst  society's  most  trivial  and  handselled  furni- 
ture, to  enjoy  Its  perfect  summer  life  at  last!" 


164  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Does  the  tree  enjoy  its  life?  I  have  wondered. 
Some  of  the  scientists  tell  us  that  its  whole  individuality 
is  the  result  of  external  forces,  over  which,  of  course, 
it  has  no  control,  and  by  which  it  is  molded.  But  yet 
they  fail  to  account  for  the  presence  of  life  there,  and 
where  life  is  I  think  joy  is  also.  I  believe  that  the  vine 
creeping  up  yon  beech  is  alive,  and  that  as  it  attaches 
itself  to  the  bark  with  its  feelers  and  tendrils  it  has  a 
joy  in  existence.  I  believe  that  it  loves  the  caresses 
and  kisses  of  the  air.  Oh,  it  has  no  mind,  I  know,  and 
hence,  I  suppose,  no  self-consciousness;  but  in  the  coil- 
ing spiral  of  the  vine,  so  pliant,  so  responsive,  so  joy- 
ously obedient  to  the  least  influences  of  wind  or  tree, 
there  surely  resides  an  identity  which  is  at  once  unique 
and  soul-like,  and  it  is  fair  and  comely  because  it  de- 
lights to  be  so.  So  far  as  it  goes,  in  the  scale  of  being, 
the  life  of  plant  and  tree,  bird,  animal,  and  the  forms 
of  the  ocean  is  just  the  same  (do  you  not  certainly 
think?)  as  is  ours — only,  of  course,  our  life  is  much 
more  perfect,  more  complex,  more  adaptable,  and  more 
appreciative.  That  there  is  a  vast  and  real  unity  in 
Nature  is  not  to  be  questioned.  We,  too,  have  a  spir- 
itual affinity  with  bird,  beast,  and  flower.  Thoreau, 
in  his  admiration,  said  of  the  pine-tree:  "It  is  as  im- 
mortal as  I  am,  and  perchance  will  go  to  as  high  a 
heaven,  there  to  tower  above  me  still." 

There  are  few  things  in  the  woods  more  beautiful 
and  graceful  than  a  fresh  spray  of  Virginia  creeper, 
clasping  close  to  an  old  rail  fence  or  twining  and  hang- 
ing about  an  elm.  In  autumn,  with  its  dense  masses 
and  its  whorls  of  dark  red  leaves,  it  is  one  of  Nature's 
master  pictures.     The  old  woods  is  full  of  it.     In  a  few 


"WREATHED  PILLARS  OF  LIVING  GREEN. 


THE  WOODS. 


167 


spots  great  beeches  are  wreathed  pillars  of  living  green, 
very  picturesque  indeed  if  seen  at  a  distance  through 
openings  of  vista  between  the  trunks,  like  the  ivied  bat- 
tlements of  ancient  ruins;  elsewhere 
the  vine  trails  along  the  ground, 
snake-like,  across  the  matted  leaves, 
or  cushions  the  remains  of  some 
old  prostrate  veteran;  in  still  other 
moods  it  clambers  industriously 
over  a  young  maple  or  a  broad- 
leaved  mulberry,  seeking  even  the 
outermost  twigs  everywhither,  and 
nodding  airly  above  them,  in  a  can- 
opy that  affords  a  lovely,  shady  sol- 
itude, like  the  bowers  formed  by 
the  wild  grape. 

The  beeches  are  the  most  inter- 
esting of  the  trees.  What  huge 
limbs  they  have,  sometimes  all 
twisted  and  bent  and  gnarled  to- 
gether, and  yet  spreading  and 
drooping  finally  into  long,  low- 
trailing,  fan-like  sprays  —  the  eye 
lashes  of  the  forest.  Was  it  Thor- 
eau  who  said  that  no  tree  had  "so 
fine  a  bole  or  so  fair  an  instep  as 
the  beech?"  Gilpin,  in  describing 
the  beech,  says  of  its  bark:  "It  is 
naturally  of  a  dingy  olive;  but  it  is 
always  overspread  in  patches  with  a  variety  of  mosses 
and  lichens,  which  are  commonly  of  a  lighter  tint,  In 


TWIN   SISTERS. 


1 68  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

the  upper  parts,  and  of  a  deep  velvet  green  toward  the 
root."  Somehow  I  always  feel  as  if  I  were  actually  In 
a  forest  if  there  are  only  a  few  beeches.  I  used  to 
enjoy  in  boyhood  days  swinging  upon  their  great  arms, 
the  tips  of  which  often  would  sweep  the  very  earth, 
and  to  scramble  amongst  their  branches,  like  a  squirrel, 
after  the  nuts;  yet  I  think  nowadays  it  would  be  one 
of  the  hardest  trees  in  the  world  to  climb. 

What  is  it  that  possesses  men  to  carve  their  initials 
upon  every  suitable  tree?  Is  it  merely  to  record  the 
fact  of  their  presence  on  that  spot,  or  a  desire  that 
their  names  shall  be  writ  there  for  eternity?  Or  does 
the  smoothness  of  the  bark  attract  them?  Whatever 
the  reason,  certain  it  is  that  he  is  an  extraordinary  man 
who  with  a  jack-knife  in  his  pocket  will  pass  a  good 
beech  without  first  trying  the  blade,  and  leaving  at 
least  a  part  of  his  name  as  a  witness  to  posterity  of 
his  having  passed  that  way. 

'T  was  not  an  uncommon  propensity,  it  seems,  cen- 
turies ago.  Ev^en  as  far  back  as  the  old  Roman  days 
do  we  find  mention  of  this  singular  trait  in  human 
nature  as  being  a  characteristic  of  the  Latin  race. 
Hamerton  quotes  Vergil  on  the  custom.  In  the  tenth 
eclogue  Gallus  says: 

"  Certum  est  in  silvis,  inter  spelaea  ferarum 
Malie  pati,  tenerisque  meos  incldere  amores 
Arboribus  :  crescent  iliae  ;  crescetis,  amores." 

(''My  mind  is  made  up  to  prefer  to  suffer  in  the  for- 
ests, among  the  dens  of  wild  beasts,  and  to  cut  my  lov^es 
upon  the  young  trees :  these  will  grow ;  ye  will  grow,  too. 


THE  WOODS. 


169 


ye  loves"  [i.  e.,  the  let- 
ters will  increase  with 
the  size  of  the  tree,  as 
his  feelings].)  It  has 
long  been  a  means  of 
letter-writing  with 
savages.  In  his  "His- 
tory of  Virginia,  in 
Four  Parts,"  pub- 
lished (second  edi- 
tion) in  1722,  Thomas 
Beverley  remarks,  too, 
that  it  was  learned  by 
the  next  settlers  "  by 
Letters  on  the  Trees," 
scratched  there  by 
earlier  arrivals,  that 
the  latter  had  removed 
to  Croatan,  an  island. 
Orlando  you  remem- 
ber, in  "As  You  Like 

It,"  was  so  persistent  in  carving  sweet  Rosalind's 
name  upon  the  trees  and  hanging  verses  from  their 
boughs  ("  There  is  a  man  haunts  the  forest,"  said 
she  to  him)  that  Jaques  was  moved  to  remonstrate : 
"I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  trees  with  writing  love- 
songs  in  their  barks."  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  too, 
confessed  that  he  "had  been  fool  enough"  to  carve 
"the  perverse  widow's"  name  on  several  of  his  trees; 
"so  unhappy  is  the  condition  of  men  in  love,  to  attempt 
the  removing  of  their  passion  by  the  methods  which 
serve  only  to  imprint  it  deeper."     And  here  are  some 


THE  EYELASHES  OF  THE  FOREST. 


170  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

lines  from  an  old  poem,  "The  Beech  Tree's  Lament," 
by  Thomas  Campbell,  uttered  by  the  beech: 

"  Thrice  twenty  summers  I  have  seen 
The  sky  grow  bright,  the  forest  green  ; 
And  many  a  wintry  wind  have  stood 
In  bloomless,  fruitless  solitude, 
Since  childhood  in  my  pleasant  bower 
First  spent  its  sweet  and  sportive  hour  ; 
Since  youthful  lovers  in  my  shade 
Their  vows  of  truth  and  rapture  made  ; 
And  on  my  trunk's  surviving  frame 
Carved  many  a  long-forgotten  name." 

Who  shall,   asks   Bryant  also,   speaking  of  his   future 
forest, 

"  Who  grave,  as  was  the  wont 
Of  simple,  pastoral  ages,  on  the  rind 
Of  my  smooth  beeches  some  beloved  name?" 

A  beech  is  the  best,  and  the  tree  most  frequently 
chosen,  on  account  of  its  smooth,  easily-cut  bark.  It 
is  the  pleasantest  and  most  yielding  to  the  knife;  and 
initials  carved  on  a  beech,  if  they  have  been  dug  deep 
into  the  sap  wood  beneath  the  bark,  are  retained  much 
longer  than  on  any  other  tree.  "No  bark,"  says  Gilpin, 
"tempts  the  lover  so  much  to  make  it  the  depository 
of  his  mistress's  name."  I  have  seen  old  beeches 
deeply  scarred  with  the  hieroglyphics  of  visitors,  curi- 
ously crude,  like  Indian  picture-writing,  interwoven 
with  the  initials.  In  our  boyhood  enthusiasm,  however, 
we  did  not  restrict  ourselves  to  beeches,  nor  even  to 
trees,  but  our  names  were  cut  upon  every  available 
object  around  the  farm — the  well  curb,  trough,  the  tim- 
bers in  the  barn,  the  door,  the  beams,  the  feed-box,  the 


THE  WOODS. 


171 


big  catalpa-tree,  and  the  gate  posts — and  even  a  maple- 
tree  bears  in  its  branches  aloft  somewhere  the  initials 
of  two  youngsters  who  one  memorable  night  perched 
for  hours  among  them  in  order  to  get  the  last  glimpse 
of  an  eclipse  as  the  moon  went  down  toward  the  western 
horizon.  Sycamores 
and  poplars  may 
sometimes  be  made 
to  serve  the  purpose 
quite  well,  in  lieu  of 
a  beech,  if  the  pas- 
sion is  upon  one;  and 
I  have  seen  whole 
names  shaped  dili- 
gently into  the  rough, 
uneven  bark  of  oaks 
and  elms. 

I  like  to  look  at 
these  initials  carved 
on  the  trees.  The 
old  inscriptions  are 
in  their  way  filled 
with  the  very  spirit 
of  the  past.  Many 
of  those  who  put 
them  here  have  gone 
far  beyond  into  still 
happier  hunting 
grounds ;  but  they 
once  lived  here  be- 
low, and  whether  from 
affection    or    mere 


INITIALS    AND   HIEROGLYPHICS. 


172  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

whim,  or  for  premeditated  fame,  they  hav^e  left  their 
names  recorded.  I  have  seen  the  date  1853  upon 
a  beech,  yet  plain  after  fifty  years.  I  recall  also 
one  other  tree  —  this,  too,  a  beech  —  with  weather- 
worn initials  upon  it  and  the  date  1864,  the  letters 
being  not  quite  legible  and  the  figures  just  barely 
discernible  as  such;  and  two  other  trees,  with  the  years 
1866  and  1867  upon  them,  still  distinguishable,  though 
the  bark  was  cracked  and  spread  apart,  and  the  letter- 
ing consequently  badly  checkered.  Mr.  John  Bur- 
roughs, in  his  essay  on  "Nature  in  England,"  in  "Fresh 
Fields,"  speaks  of  the  soft  stones  of  the  bridges  and 
churches  in  England  as  being  all  carved  up  with 
initials,  some  of  them  over  a  century  old.  On  Look- 
out Mountain  an  old  mountaineer  with  whom  I  went 
deer  hunting  told  me  of  a  place  a  few  miles  from  the 
road  where  the  trees  were  literally  lined  and  tattooed 
with  bullets  and  initials  put  there  by  soldiers  in  the 
Civil  War.  They  had  camped  on  that  spot  for  a 
time,  and  had  left  their  names  on  many  of  the  trees, 
and  had  used  the  trunks  as  a  backstop  in  target  practice; 
and,  of  course,  one  can  frequently  see  evidences  of  the 
soldiers'  presence  in  the  old  splintered  stumps  on  other 
parts  of  the  mountain,  in  which  cannon-balls  sometimes 
found  their  final  lodgment. 

But  decidedly  the  most  interesting  script  that  I  have 
yet  seen  anywhere  in  any  woods  is  the  writing  of  an 
English  schoolmaster  of  this  village,  who  lived  for  a 
time  at  the  homestead,  and  whose  wood-carving  on 
the  trees  is  therefore  known  to  have  been  cut  there  long 
"befo'  de  wah."  There  were  two  fine  large  beeches 
in  this  woods  which  he  chose  as  his  favorites,  to  be  the 
recording    recipients    of    his    feelings.      Upon    one    of 


THE  WOODS.  173 

them,  graven  deeply  in  capitals,  ran  the  following, 
which  shows  the  pedagogue  to  have  sighed  like  a  fur- 
nace in  his  day  as  a  lover: 

"  VALETE   ARBORES. 
VALETE   AVES. 
VALETE   FLORES. 
VALETE   AMORESI" 

("Farewell,  trees.  Farewell,  birds.  Farewell,  flowers. 
Farewell,  loves!")  And  so  the  man  had  had  his  heart- 
strings touched  by  the  little  god,  and  had  his  loves 
to  bid  farewell  to,  as  well  as  the  trees,  the  birds,  and 
the  flowers;  and  this  time,  too,  it  was  farewell  forever. 
He  was  a  singular  man,  and,  although  he  taught  in  an 
obscure  country  district,  he  was  well  educated,  and 
there  was  something  of  the  real  scholar  to  the  man,  as 
all  testify  who  knew  him.  It  was  always  thought,  in 
surmise,  that  he  had  a  history  which  he  did  not  dis- 
close— was  perhaps  a  writer  at  work  upon  some  book. 
It  was  his  habit  to  wander  through  the  old  woods  by 
the  hour,  reciting  aloud  stanzas  and  quotations  in 
Latin,  and  nearer  the  homestead  he  himself  had  worn 
a  path  alone,  up  and  down  which  he  would  take  his 
endless  beats  and  make  his  orations,  casting  meanwhile 
lance-like  at  some  mark  a  few  stiff  stems  of  iron  weed 
which  he  had  collected.  The  other  inscription,  which 
encircled  the  tree  in  script,  rings  with  patriotic  senti- 
ment, and  suggests  that  perhaps  the  teacher  even  then 
felt  a  premonition  of  the  impending  war  between  the 
States;  and  so  it  reads: 

"Cominus  pugnamus  pro  patria  et  Ubertate  et  tion 
moriemur  iniilti." 
("Together   we    fight   for  country   and   liberty,  and 


174      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

we  shall  not  die  unavenged.")  I  have  looked  upon 
these  quaint  old  Latin  inscriptions  with  mingled  feel- 
ings of  kindliness  and  pathos.  Written  in  the  early 
'40's,  they  were  still  legible  in  1897,  though  the  letters 
were  somewhat  grown  over  with  new  bark,  and  thus 
made  distorted  and  spread  apart  and  quite  indistinct, 
and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that  I  could  make  them 
out.  But  both  trees  were  finally  cut  down,  and  sawed 
into  lumber  or  split  up  for  firewood,  and  the  singular 
old  schoolmaster  and  his  strange  ways  are  now  only 
a  memory,  coming  dimly  through  the  trees  out  of  the 
far-away  past. 

Traps?  The  old  woods  was  full  of  them.  All 
sorts  of  snares  were  cunningly  devised  with  which  to 
beguile  the  unsuspecting  forest  cr-:^atures.  And  the 
necessity  to  make  the  rounds  of  the  traps  daily  was  fre- 
quently the  occasion  of  a  somewhat  prolonged  absence 
from  the  fields  in  corn-cutting  or  potato-digging  time. 
No,  we  never  caught  anything  in  these  twitch-ups,  that 
I  recall.  But  they  were  very  excellent  traps,  and  were 
constructed,  somewhat  after  the  manner  of  Izaak  Wal- 
ton's flies  for  fishing,  of  horsehair,  cord,  pieces  of  wire, 
and  twine.  We  frequently  found  them  sprung,  and 
once  there  were  actually  a  few  hairs  from  a  gray  squir- 
rel's tail  left  caught  in  a  noose.  The  horsehairs  we 
pulled  and  twitched  from  the  tails  of  our  humble  beasts 
of  burden,  and  their  long  silky  tassels  grew  noticeably 
shaggy  and  ragged  after  part  had  been  impressed  into 
our  service.  As  many  as  twenty-one  quail  at  once 
were  caught  years  ago,  so  the  saying  goes,  in  a  big 
figure  four  trap,  made  by  a  Nimrod  of  the  day,  who 
has  now  grown  into  a  gray-haired  hunter  and  lover  of 
the  woods. 


THE  WOODS.  175 

Near  by  was  the  orchard.  The  trees  were  large 
and  had  a  comfortable  look  to  them,  and  the  varieties 
were  all  the  good,  old-fashioned  kinds  which  no  new 
apples  take  the  place  of.  We  used  to  purloin  the 
orchard  occasionally  on  our  squirrel  hunts,  and,  with 
a  few  "roasting  ears"  from  the  cornfield  and  some 
hunks  of  bread  from  the  pantry,  we  would  feel  like 
veritable  kings  of  old  beside  our  fire  in  the  woods, 
munching  our  bread  and  apples,  and  watching  the  ears 
of  corn  smoke  in  the  ashes,  with  a  shy,  proud  glance 
now  and  then  at  the  brace  of  squirrels  lying  on  the 
log  beside  us  and  our  faithful  rifles  leaning  against  the 
nearest  tree.  Leatherstocking,  I  know,  never  had  such 
feelings  of  serene  and  absolute  self-contentment  and 
enjoyment  of  life  as  we  at  those  early  breakfasts  under 
the  hickories.  We  had  found  the  thing  worth  living 
for.  We  were  rivals  of  Robin  Hood.  Why,  Daniel 
Boone  himself  had  hunted  and  lived  not  more  than  a 
hundred  miles  away!  I  wish  I  could  leav^e  it  in  lan- 
guage, the  wildness  I  have  felt  on  those  fresh  mornings, 
in  moist  dingles  among  the  waving  grass  and  the  beau- 
tiful swaying  trees,  while  the  gun  barrel  was  beaded 
with  dew;  or  in  the  late  afternoons,  when  the  great 
trunks  were  painted  with  the  sunset  lights  and  shadows; 
or  again,  when  looking  for  'coons  beneath  the  stars 
and  under  the  hunter's  midnight  moon. 

The  old  woods — how  I  have  loved  it!  The  sweet- 
est memories  of  life  are  entwined  back  there  among 
the  grasses  and  the  grapevines  and  the  oaks  and  beeches. 
Its  beauty  and  silence  and  the  wild  life  in  it  were 
the  unsolved  mystery  of  boyhood,  and  its  deeper  study 


176  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

in  later  years  has  been  a  very  great  delight  and  in- 
spiration. I  think  I  gain,  by  familiarity  with  its  life, 
something  of  its  vitality,  at  least  in  spirit.  The  long 
vista  of  the  great  trees,  the  sunshine  mottling  the  leaves 
and  filling  the  open  spaces  beneath  with  beautiful  light, 
the  immeasurable  canopy  and  the  shade,  the  birds  sing- 
ing their  loves  and  their  joys,  the  squirrels  frisking 
among  the  acorns,  and  the  atmosphere  of  age  which 
pervades  it,  all  have  filled  my  mind  with  never-to-be- 
forgotten  impressions  of  the  beauty  and  loveliness  of 
the  old  woods,  and  a  memory  abides  that  is  a  per- 
petual  dream. 

I  hear  the  low  moo  of  a  cow,  feeding  on  the  near-by 
blue  grass.  The  silence  echoes  it.  The  flute-like  notes 
of  a  wood  thrush  fall  from  the  branches  of  a  maple. 
As  I  listen,  the  sweet  tones  of  Sabbath  chimes  come 
floating  through  the  aisles  of  the  trees.  Fainter,  fainter 
— as  they  wind  through  the  forest  and  die  away-^so 
the  sounds  bring  back  past  memories,  which  themselves 
drift  and  weave  about  the  trunks,  like  mist,  at  last  also 
to  fade,  far  beyond,  into  the  haze  of  a  dim,  happy,  ■ 
fond  long-ago. 

Adam  was  the  first  forester.  "The  Lord  God  took 
the  man,  and  put  him  into  the  garden  of  Eden,  to  dress 
it  and  to  keep  it,"  even  with  the  rude  stone  implements 
of  those  days  of  primitive  man.  Indeed,  it  would 
seem  as  if  the  care  of  trees,  their  pruning,  culture,  and 
fostering,  was  a  divinely  intended  and  natural  occu- 
pation of  mankind  (as,  too,  it  has  always  been  one 
of  the  most  congenial),  man,  besides,  to  subsist  on  the 
native  fruits  and  nuts  of  the  groves.     Thus  far  have 


"THE  SUNSHINE  MOTTLING  THE  LEAVES." 


THE  WOODS.  179 

we  fallen  and  wandered,  m  that  the  herbs  and  fruits  are 
no  longer  the  only  things  that  are  "to  us  for  food," 
and  that  man  no  longer  spends  all  of  his  time  amid 
the  trees,  nor  does  he  always  protect  and  preserve  the 
virgin  forests.  Alas !  the  desire  for  money  has  in  this 
instance  as  well  as  others  been  the  root  of  all  kinds  of 
evil.  Commercialism  and  poetry  do  not  often  agree; 
we  sell  our  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  Yet,  thus 
nurtured  in  his  infancy  in  the  forest,  man  has  ever 
loved  it,  and  has  walked  among  these  giant  fern-like 
forms  always,  if  involuntarily,  with  veneration — as  if 
with  the  experiences  and  memories  of  past  centuries 
still  within  him. 

It  is  not  for  many  of  us  to  be  like  the  barons  of 
eld,  and  to  behold  deer  cropping  the  grass  in  our  own 
demesnes,  or  to  look  about  our  walls  upon  rows  of 
mounted  antlers,  trophies  of  the  chase.  Nor  shall  we 
often  feast  royally  upon  venison  before  the  logs  in 
spacious  manor  halls,  as  is  the  picture  in  "Ivanhoe." 
Yet  we  all  turn  to  the  wild  at  times  instinctively;  and, 
can  we  but  release  for  a  moment  this  noble  savagery 
from  the  surfeit  of  the  too  intricate  and  over-studied 
culture  beneath  which  it  now  lies  smothered,  the  woods 
shall  still  be  unto  us  a  home  and  an  abiding  place,  and 
we  shall  again  rejoice  with  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John 
to  hear  the  bow  twang  and  see  the  stag  leap  in  Sher- 
wood Forest. 

For  the  forest,  because  of  man's  long  joy  of  it,  has 
found  its  way  into  literature.  'T  is  there,  at  least,  we 
may  all  seek  it,  and  betake  ourselves  thither  to  rest  in 
its  shadows.  Homer  loved  it;  so  did  Vergil;  and  there 
are  passages  of  forest  description  in  the  Bible  which  are 


l8o      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

magnificent  for  their  language  and  beauty,  such  as  occa- 
sional verses  in  Ezekiel  and  Isaiah,  in  which  the  trees 
are  used  as  examples  in  the  most  exalted  prophecies. 
Jehovah,  through  Isaiah  (chapter  Iv,  12;  Ix,  13),  says 
that  "all  the  trees  of  the  field  shall  clap  their  hands" 
at  the  return  of  the  wicked,  and  thus  portrays  the 
future  of  Zion : 

"The  glon-  of  Lebanon  shall  come  unto  thee,  the  fir-tree, 
the  pine,  and  the  box-tree  together,  to  beautify  the  place  of 
My  sanctuarj' ;  and  I  will  make  the  place  of  My  feet  glorious." 

The  description  of  the  cedar  in  Ezekiel  (chapter 
xxxi,  3-9)    is  especially  to  be  noticed: 

"Behold,  the  Assyrian  was  a  cedar  in  Lebanon  with  fair 
branches,  and  with  a  forest-like  shade,  and  of  high  stature; 
and  its  top  was  among  the  thick  boughs.  The  waters  nour- 
ished it,  the  deep  made  it  grow.  .  .  .  Therefore  its  stature 
was  exalted  above  all  the  trees  of  the  field ;  and  its  boughs 
were  multiplied,  and  its  branches  became  long  by  reason  of 
many  waters,  when  it  shot  them  forth.  All  the  birds  of  the 
heaven  made  their  nests  in  its  boughs;  and  under  its  branches 
did  all  the  beasts  of  the  field  bring  forth  their  young;  and 
under  its  shadow  dwelt  all  great  nations.  Thus  was  it  fair 
in  its  greatness,  in  the  length  of  its  branches ;  for  its  root  was 
by  many  waters.  The  cedars  in  the  garden  of  God  could  not 
hide  it ;  the  fir-trees  were  not  like  its  boughs,  and  the  plane- 
trees  were  not  as  its  branches;  nor  was  any  tree  in  the  garden 
of  God  like  unto  it  in  its  beauty." 

The  cedar  of  Lebanon  figures  prominently  all 
through  the  Scriptures;  Solomon,  indeed,  had  "four- 
score thousand  hewers  in  the  mountains,"  felling  cedar 
and  fir  for  the  temple.     David,  in  a  comparison,  laments 


THE  WOODS.  l8l 

the  unreasoning  destruction  of  the  forests  in  his  day, 
when  he  says  (Psalm  Ixxiv,  5,  6)  of  the  enemies  of 
Zion : 

"They  seemed  as  men  that  lifted  up  axes  upon  a  thicket 
of  trees.  And  now  all  the  carved  work  thereof  they  break 
down  with  hatchet  and  hammers." 

It  was  but  natural  that  the  singer  of  the  twenty- 
third  Psalm  should  have  hated  to  witness  the  devasta- 
tion of  the  woods.  Abraham's  tent  was  pitched  be- 
neath the  oaks  of  Mamre,  in  that  far-off  picture  of 
Genesis,  when  he  and  Sarah  refreshed  their  guests,  and 
he  stood  near  them  as  they  ate,  "under  the  tree." 
Adam  first  walked  beneath  the  trees;  the  dove  brought 
the  leaf  of  an  olive-tree  to  the  ark;  it  was  branches  of 
trees  which  were  strewn  before  Jesus  at  His  entrance 
into  Jerusalem;  and  the  leaves  of  the  tree  of  life,  in 
John's  concluding  vision,  are  for  the  healing  of  the 
nations. 

Even  Dante,  medlaevalist  though  he  was,  felt  the 
majesty  of  the  forest.  Ruskin  said  that  Dante's  de- 
scription of  his  entrance  into  the  Earthly  Paradise,  in 
"II  Purgatorio,''  was  "the  sweetest  passage  of  wood 
description  which  exists  in  literature."  Shall  we  read 
some  from  it?^ 

"Fain  now  to  search  within  and  round  about  the  divine 
forest  dense  and  living,  which  tempered  the  new  day  to  my 
eyes,  without  longer  waiting  I  left  the  bank,  taking  the  level 
ground  very  slowly,  over  the  soil  that  everywhere  breathes 
fragrance.      A   sweet   breeze   that   had    no   variation    in    itself 


'  Using  Norton's  translation. 


1 82  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

struck  me  on  the  brow,  not  with  heavier  blow  than  a  soft 
wind ;  at  v.'hich  the  branches,  readily  trembling,  all  of  them 
were  bending  to  the  quarter  where  the  holy  mountain  casts 
its  first  shadow ;  yet  not  so  far  parted  from  their  straightness, 
that  the  little  birds  among  the  tops  would  leave  the  practice 
of  their  every  art ;  but  with  full  joy  singing  they  received  the 
early  breezes  among  the  leaves,  which  kept  a  burden  to  their 
rhymes,  such  as  gathers  from  bough  to  bough  through  the 
pine  forest  upon  the  shores  of  Chiassi,  when  iEolus  lets  forth 
Sirocco. 

"Now  had  my  slow  steps  carried  me  within  the  ancient 
wood  so  far  that  I  could  not  see  back  to  where  I  had  entered 
it:  and  lo,  a  stream  took  from  me  further  progress,  w^hich 
toward  the  left  with  its  little  waves  was  bending  the  grass 
that  sprang  upon  its  bank.  .  .  . 

"With  feet  I  stayed,  and  with  my  eyes  I  passed  to  the 
other  side  of  the  streamlet,  to  gaze  at  the  great  variety  of  the 
fresh  may;  and  there  appeared  to  me,  even  as  a  thing  appears 
suddenly  which  turns  aside  through  wonder  every  other  thought, 
a  solitary  lady,  who  was  going  along,  singing,  and  culling 
flower  from  flower,  wherewith  all  her  path  was  painted." 

Beautiful,  indeed,  Is  it  not  for  those  times? 

The  forest  has  been  the  scene  of  fairy  revelry,  of 
loves,  of  many  a  fight  and  kingly  hunt.  It  was  in  a 
forest  where  Puck  ran,  and  with  Bottom  created  con- 
sternation, in  "A  jVIidsummer  Night's  Dream;"  and, 
again,  it  was  beneath  the  trees  where  "the  melancholy 
Jaques"  propounded  his  discourse  on  the  seven  ages. 
Shakespeare's  forests  are  all  historic — Falstafif  and 
Heme's  Oak;  Touchstone  and  Audrey,  and  Rosalind, 
in  the  Forest  of  Arden;  Alacbeth  and  Birnam  Wood. 
Spenser,  too,  knew  the  forest  of  his  day,  and  rever- 
enced it.     No  trees  had  yet  died  in  Spenser's  forest  to 


THE  WOODS.  183 

let  in  the  light  for  the  seedlings  to  grow.  Philip  Gil- 
bert Hamerton,  who  also  loved  a  forest,  speaks  thus  of 
him,  in  "The  Sylvan  Year:" 

"Think  what  was  Spenser's  conception  of  a  forest,  and 
what  in  our  time  is  too  often  the  uninteresting  reality!  He 
thought  of  it  as  a  country  shaded  by  a  great  roof  of  green 
foliage,  which  was  carried  on  massive  stems  always  so  far 
apart  that  one  or  several  knights  could  ride  everywhere  with- 
out inconvenience;  but  we  find  the  reality  to  be  for  the  most 
part  an  impenetrable  jungle  of  young  trees,  that  will  be  cut 
down  in  a  year  or  two  for  firewood." 

Milton's  imaginative  Eden,  too,  is  a  very  delight- 
ful forest  picture: 

"  So  on  he  fares,  and  to  the  border  comes 
Of  Eden,  where  delicious  Paradise, 
Now  nearer,  crowns  with  her  inclosure  green, 
As  with  a  rural  mound,  the  champaign  head 
Of  a  steep  wilderness,  whose  hairy  sides 
With  thicket  overgrown,  grotesque,  and  wild, 
Access  denied  ;  and  overhead  up  grew 
Insuperable  heights  of  loftiest  shade. 
Cedar,  and  pine,  and  fir,  and  branching  palm." 

But  do  you  know  William  Gilpin's  "Forest  Scen- 
ery?" 'T  is  a  rare  old  book,  and  one  for  the  forest. 
I  well  recollect  the  time  I  first  read  it.  It  was  in  a 
woods  which  bespoke  great  age,  beneath  the  gnarled, 
wide-spreading  beech  that  I  spoke  of,  upon  the  trunk 
of  which  had  been  carved  the  initials,  and  the  dates 
inscribed,  one  1864,  and  another  1869,  very  rough  and 
irregular  now,  almost  like  the  seams  and  cracks  of  the 
old  tree  itself,  yet  still  discernible  from  those  days  of 
long  ago.     I  could  scarcely  have  found  a  more  fitting 


184  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

environment  in  which  to  peruse  and  think,  over  the 
quaint,  and  sometimes  delightfully  interesting,  "pictur- 
esque remarks"  of  the  old  Nature  lover.  There  were 
keepers  of  the  forest,  it  seems,  whose  offices  included 
that  of  ranger  and  bow-bearer  (come  down  to  them), 
and  underkeepers,  in  smaller  dwellings.  "The  under- 
keeper  feeds  the  deer  in  winter — browses  them  in  sum- 
mer— knows  where  to  find  a  fat  buck — executes  the 
King's  warrants  for  venison — presents  offences  in  the 
forest-courts — and  prevents  the  destruction  of  game." 
Another  of  his  duties  was  "to  drive  the  forest"  and 
mark  the  cattle.  Who  would  not  have  been  one?  But 
Gilpin's  picture  of  a  certain  Mr.  Henry  Hastings,  one 
of  the  keepers  of  New  Forest,  and  his  lodge  ('tis 
almost  a  den,  like  the  lair  of  a  wild  beast),  is  especially 
attractive,  surcharged,  as  it  is,  with  the  very  atmos- 
phere of  the  ancient,  historic  wood,  savory  of  game, 
and  redolent  of  many  things  archaic,  and  antique,  and 
forest-like : 

"Mr.  Hastings  was  low  of  stature,  but  strong  and  active; 
of  a  ruddy  complexion,  with  flaxen  hair.  His  cloaths  were 
always  of  green  cloth.  His  house  was  of  the  old  fashion;  in 
the  midst  of  a  large  park,  well  stocked  with  deer,  rabbits,  and 
fish-ponds.  He  had  a  bowling-green  in  it ;  and  used  to  play 
with  round  sand-bowls.  Here,  too,  he  had  a  banqueting-room 
built,  like  a  stand,  in  a  large  tree.  He  kept  all  sorts  of  hounds, 
that  ran  buck,  fox,  hare,  otter,  and  badger;  and  had  hawks  of 
all  kinds,  both  long,  and  short  winged.  His  great  hall  was 
commonly  strewed  with  marrow-bones;  and  full  of  hawk- 
perches,  hounds,  spaniels,  and  terriers.  The  upper  end  was 
hung  with  fox-skins  of  this^  and  the  last  year's  killing.  Here, 
and  there  a  pole-cat  was  intermixed ;  and  hunter's  poles  in  great 


THE  WOODS.  185 

abundance.  The  parlour  was  a  large  room,  completely  fur- 
nished in  the  same  style.  On  a  broad  hearth,  paved  with 
brick,  lay  some  of  the  choicest  terriers,  hounds,  and  spaniels. 
One  or  two  of  the  great  chairs,  had  litters  of  cats  in  them,  which 
were  not  to  be  disturbed.  Of  these  three  or  four  always  attended 
him  at  dinner ;  and  a  little  white  wand  lay  by  his  trencher,  to  de- 
fend it,  if  they  were  too  troublesome.  In  the  windows,  which  were 
very  large,  lay  his  arrows,  cross-bows,  and  other  accoutrements. 
The  corners  of  the  room  were  filled  with  his  best  hunting, 
and  hawking  poles.  His  oister-table  stood  at  the  lowered  end 
of  the  room,  which  was  in  constant  use  twice  a  day,  all  the 
year  round ;  for  he  never  failed  to  eat  oysters  both  at  dinner 
and  supper,  with  which  the  neighboring  town  of  Pool  supplied 
him.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  room  stood  a  small  table  with 
a  double  desk ;  one  side  of  which  held  a  Church  Bible ;  the 
other,  the  book  of  martyrs.  On  different  tables  in  the  room 
lay  hawk's-hoods ;  bells;  old  hats,  with  their  crowns  thrust 
in,  full  of  pheasant  eggs;  tables;  dice;  cards;  and  store  of 
tobacco-pipes.  At  one  end  of  this  room  was  a  door,  which 
opened  into  a  closet,  where  stood  bottles  of  strong  beer,  and 
wine;  which  never  came  out  but  in  single  glasses,  which  was 
the  rule  of  the  house ;  for  he  never  exceeded  himself,  nor  per- 
mitted others  to  exceed.  Answering  to  this  closet,  was  a  door 
into  an  old  chapel ;  which  had  long  been  disused  for  devotion ; 
but  in  the  pulpit,  as  the  safest  place,  was  always  to  be  found  a 
cold  chine  of  beef,  a  venison-pasty,  a  gammon  of  bacon,  or  a 
great  apple-pye,  with  thick  crust,  well-baked.  His  table  cost 
him  not  much,  tho  it  was  good  to  eat  at.  His  sports  supplied 
all  but  beef  and  mutton ;  except  on  fridays,  when  he  had  the 
best  of  fish.  He  never  wanted  a  London  pudding;  and  he 
always  sang  it  in  with,  'My  part  lies  therein-a.'  He  drank  a 
glass  or  two  of  wine  at  meals;  put  syrup  of  gilly-flowers  into 
his  sack;  and  always  had  a  tun-glass  of  small-beer  standing 
by  him,  which  he  often  stirred  about  with  rosemary.     He  lived 


1 86  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

to  be  an  hundred;  and  never  lost  his  eye-sight,  nor  used 
spectacles.  He  got  on  horseback  without  help;  and  rode  to 
the  death  of  the  stag,  till  he  was  past  fourscore." 

That,  gentlemen,  certainly  smacks  of  the  chase ! 
And,  with  the  type  set  in  the  old-time  f-shaped  s's,  as  in 
the  first  edition,  the  effect  of  this  passage  is  greatly  in- 
creased. What  a  singular  character  he  was;  a  sports- 
man. Epicurean  to  the  core,  and  yet  temperate,  and 
observing  the  laws  of  the  Church,  even  though  he  did 
keep  "a  great  apple-pye"  in  the  pulpit;  and  how  he 
loved  and  enjoyed  the  things  of  the  wild!  I  think  I 
should  have  liked  to  know  him. 

Thoreau's  "Walden;  or.  Life  in  the  Woods" — one 
must  not  pass  that  by,  nor  "The  Maine  Woods,"  nor 
the  many  other  chance  descriptions  of  the  forest  from 
the  pen  of  that  strange,  wild  lover  of  the  woods.  Nor 
should  we  forget  some  of  the  pages  in  Whitman's 
"Specimen  Days;"  nor  the  forest  poems  of  Longfellow, 
Emerson,  and  Bryant;  nor  the  forest  scenes  in  the 
"Scarlet  Letter;"  nor,  in  England,  the  work  of  Scott, 
Ruskin,  Richard  Jefferies,  and  Mr,  George  Meredith. 
Wilson  Flagg  has  written  an  interesting  account  of  the 
intensity  of  his  boyhood  impressions  upon  first  entering 
a  virgin  forest,  how  he  watched  the  scenes  as  he  rode 
through  them — "the  immense  pillars  that  rose  out  of 
a  level  plain,  strewed  with  brown  foliage,  and  inter- 
spersed with  a  few  branches  and  straggling  vines;  the 
dark  summits  of  the  white  pines  that  rose  above  the 
round  heads  of  the  other  species  which  were  the  pre- 
vailing timber;  the  twilight  that  pervaded  the  woods 
even  at  high  noon;  and  I  thought  of  their  seemingly 
boundless  extent,  of  their  mysterious  solitude,  and  their 


THE  WOODS.  187 

unspeakable  beauty."  I  am  reminded,  too,  of  "The 
Marshes  of  Glynn,"  the 

"  Gloom  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  myriad-cloven 
Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs," 

— ah,  Lanier  was  a  poet !  Nor  must  I  neglect  to  men- 
tion Dr.  W.  C.  Gray's  forest  musings,  nor  Mr.  John 
Muir's  vivid  inspirations  on  the  trees  of  the  Western 
Sierras,  nor  the  chapter  on  "The  Hills,"  in  "The 
Forest,"  by  Mr.  Stewart  Edward  White.  And  the 
time  would  fail  me  to  tell  as  I  ought  of  the  travels  of 
Parkman,  and  the  explorations  of  Stanley  in  the  Congo, 
and  of  the  "Silva"  of  Evelyn,  and  Michaux,  and  the 
monumental  work  of  Sargent. 

I  have  enjoyed  these  forest  descriptions  in  liter- 
ature. There  are  many  more  such  passages,  of  our 
day  and  before  it ;  I  have  presented  but  a  few  of  them. 
Some  of  the  earliest  are  among  the  best.  Vergil  writes 
in  his  imagination,  you  remember,  of  how  the  spears 
of  Polydorus  grew  into  trees  which  shed  blood  upon 
being  broken.  Dante  also,  in  his  great  vision,  saw  that 
the  twigs  ran  blood,  and  were  alive.  And  so  is  the 
forest  indeed,  in  its  way,  full  of  beautiful  life  and  joy, 
which  rebuke  us  at  their  wanton  destruction. 

I  leave  the  old  woods  with  awe  and  reverence.  It 
has  served  its  purpose.  Most  of  the  best  trees  have 
been  felled,  and  the  oldest  of  those  remaining  have 
staghorns  of  dead  branches  at  their  tops — the  minarets, 
as  it  were,  of  a  place  of  worship.  The  young  growth 
is  thick,  however,  and  in  time  a  new  forest  will  spring 
up  in  its  place,  and  will  no  doubt  fill  the  same  useful- 


1 88  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

ness.  But  the  old  woods,  the  woods  of  the  Indian  and 
early  settler,  has  nearly  all  of  it  gone  its  way  with  the 
pioneer  and  trapper  and  the  former  life  of  years  ago, 
the  rugged  life  of  the  hunter  and  rail-splitter  in  the 
days  of  solid  homespun  clothes.  New  conditions  have 
confronted  us,  and  we  must  meet  them.  The  trees 
have  ripened,  and  it  is  for  our  interest  and  that  of 
others  that  they  should  fulfill  their  intended  usefulness 
as  lumber  before  decay  renders  the  wood  unfit.  Some 
of  the  old  oaks,  as  I  have  said,  were  over  three  hundred 
years  of  age.  It  was  time  they  went.  They  have 
helped  us  by  their  beauty  and  shade,  and  it  is  not  a 
profanation  to  have  them  go,  but  they  fall  rather  in 
the  fullness  of  their  maturity,  as  veritable  patriarchs  of 
the  forest. 

And  then,  too,  the  view  that  we  have,  now  that 
part  of  it  has  been  cut  away,  is  so  restful  and  beautiful 
that  we  think  that  perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  really  better 
that  the  woods  has  partly  been  lumbered  off.  We  can 
see  from  the  old  homestead  the  lovely  hills  across  the 
Miami.  It  is  like  a  pastoral.  We  could  not  see  them 
before;  indeed,  we  hardly  knew  they  were  there.  In 
winter  these  hills  present  white  fields  bordered  with 
brush,  seen  through  the  old  trees'  penciled  tops;  in 
spring  these  same  sloping  ridges  become  again  fresh  in 
their  green  and  purple  and  furrowed  brown;  in  sum- 
mer we  can  see  the  golden  harvest  and  the  reapers; 
in  autumn  the  many-colored  hues  of  the  fall  of  the  leaf 
beautify  and  once  more  vary  the  color  of  the  landscape 
and  the  strips  of  woodland: — winter,  and  the  snowy 
covering. 


THE  WOODS. 


189 


As  we  stand  again  near  the  path  leading  into  It, 
with  the  woods  in  its  full  panoply  of  green,  and  the 
wild  melody  of  the  wood  thrush  sounding,  toward  the 
twilight,  at  the  entrance  to  this  minster  of  the  beau- 
tiful old  forest,  with  the  crosses  and  antlered  spires 
above  it  piercing  the  sunset  sky,  and  with  its  dingles 
beckoning  back  to  us  so  that  we  can  not  leave  it,  we 
feel  ourselves  influenced  anew,  and  spiritually  uplifted, 
by  the  strange,  mystic  druidism  of  the  trees. 

There  recur  to  memory  the  opening  lines  of  Bryant's 
familiar  ode.     We,  too,  say  that 

"  The  groves  were  God's  first  temples." 


8TAGHORNS. 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING. 

"  We  can   not  but   pity  the   boy  w^ho   has  never  fired  a  gun ;   he  is  no 
more  humane,  while  his  education  has  been  sadly  neglected." 

—Thoreau. 


"I  have  entered  many  woods  just  for  the  purpose  of  creeping  through 
the  brake  and  the  thickets.  Destruction  in  itself  was  not  the  motive ;  it  was 
an  overpowering  instinct  for  woods  and  fields.  Yet  woods  and  fields  lose 
half  their  interest  without  a  gun— I  like  the  power  to  shoot,  even  though  I 
may  not  use  it." 

— Richard  Jefferies. 

"  Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 
Of  the  brow^n  nuts'  dow^nward  pattering. 
Leap  the  squirrels,  red  and  gray." 

—  Whittier. 

HAVE  always  been  attracted  to  squirrels 
with  an  uncontrollable  impulse.  I  must 
be  on  the  hunt,  away  to  the  woods  and  to 
their  haunts.  Squirrel  hunting  was  the 
favorite  pastime  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  Why 
should  it  not  be  ours  also? 

The  best  kind  of  a  day  in  which  to 
hunt  squirrels  is  on  a  still  morning,  quite 
early,  when  there  has  been  a  rain  on  the 
day  before,  and  the  woods  are  yet  a  little 
wet,  and  the  leaves  perhaps  not  through 
their  dripping;  or  on  a  late  afternoon, 
when  the  wind  has  died  down  and  they  are  out  for  their 
supper  among  the  branches.  Any  quiet  dawn  or  even- 
ing will  do,  but  after  a  rain  is  the  most  favorable  time, 
for  they  will  be  out  then  in  full  force,  if  the  trees  are 
not  too  wet  for  them.     In  the  middle  of  the  day  they 

190 


THE  SQUIRREL  HUNTER 


H 
X 

w 

o 

> 

en 

O 

a 

PI 
r 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.        193 

are  either  in  their  holes,  or  lying  stretched  out  on  some 
limb  sunning  themselves,  where  you  will  not  perceive 
them.  On  windy  days  they  scarcely  come  out  at  all  on 
the  trees,  but  will  stay  on  the  ground,  and  you  will  not 
be  so  likely  to  see  them  unobserved. 

The  right  season  of  the  year  is,  of  course,  the 
autumn,  and  for  several  reasons.  In  the  first  place, 
they  are  then  at  work  among  the  nuts,  and  so  their 
whereabouts  can  easily  be  detected  by  the  shucks  patter- 
ing and  dropping  through  the  leaves  to  the  earth;  in 
the  second  place,  they  are  then  past  the  breeding  season, 
and  it  is  more  humane  to  hunt  them;  in  the  third  place, 
their  flesh  is  very  delicious  in  the  fall,  juicy,  and  tasting 
of  the  nuts  which  they  have  eaten;  and  in  the  fourth 
place,  their  skins  will  not  shed  the  hair  after  the  sum- 
mer is  past,  and  so  can  be  kept  and  enjoyed,  if  you  wish 
to  tan  or  dry  them.  I  have  heard  of  robes  made  of 
squirrel  skins,  and  they  must  have  been  very  warm  and 
comfortable;  a  real  feeling  of  woods  life  must  come 
upon  one  when  beneath  the  squirrel  fur. 

Spring,  however,  is  a  good  time  to  get  the  young 
ones.  Young  squirrels  in  springtime  are  so  innocent 
and  so  approachable.  Having  never  been  hunted,  they 
are  very  tame.  They  have  not  yet  learned  the  differ- 
ence between  good  and  evil.  Their  flesh  is  very  sweet 
and  tender  then,  and  almost  melts  in  your  mouth. 
Nothing,  however,  could  be  better  than  a  well-broiled 
squirrel  which  has  been  killed  on  a  hickory  on  a  frosty 
morning  in  the  autumn.  I  have  hunted  them  at  all 
seasons  of  the  year,  before  the  present  restrictive  game 
laws  were  in  force,  and  I  well  recollect  one  winter 
shooting   one    from    the   very   top    of   a   bare,    leafless 


194  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

maple,  where  it  looked  like  a  piece  of  bark  caught  and 
swinging  in  the  air. 

Some  men  seem  not  to  know  how  to  keep  still  when 
in  the  woods,  and  not  to  know  what  noise  is.  I  have 
taken  friends  out  to  hunt,  and  they  have  splashed 
through  the  woods  like  hippopotamuses,  and  then  were 
always  wondering  where  the  squirrels  were.  Squirrels, 
however,  can  walk  among  the  driest  of  dry  leaves 
without  making  the  noise  of  scarcely  a  patter.  I  have 
seen  them  creep  along  logs  or  on  the  ground  among 
a  thick  fall  of  leaves,  where  it  seemed  to  me  impossible 
that  they  could  go  so  noiselessly,  and  yet  at  but  ten 
paces  distant  I  have  not  been  able  to  detect  a  scratch 
or  a  rustle.  It  is  not  always  that  they  are  silent,  for 
I  have  seen  them  running  and  rustling  and  leaping 
and  playing  among  the  fallen  leaves  as  if  with  a  real, 
genuine  joy  at  the  woods'  wildness;  and  I  have  seen 
them  in  a  game  of  tag  circle  round  and  round  the  trunk 
of  a  shagbark  until  the  woods  was  dinned  with  the 
rattle  of  the  strips  of  bark  and  with  their  chucklings. 
Sometimes — though  rarely — squirrels  will  mistake  a 
man's  swish  among  the  leav^es  for  the  jump  and  crash 
of  one  of  their  own  species,  and  I  have  had  them  make 
directly  toward  me  at  such  times,  when  I  had  made  a 
sudden  misstep  or  had  stumbled.  As  a  rule  they  do 
not  seem  to  scrutinize  the  woods  very  carefully  in 
search  of  an  enemy,  but  to  depend  more  upon  their 
sense  of  hearing;  for  I  hav^e  walked  quietly  round  and 
round  a  tree  in  wet  weather,  in  order  to  get  a  good 
shot,  and  they  seemed  totally  oblivious  of  my  presence. 
But  let  me  once  tread  on  a  twig  and  snap  it,  or  let  me 
rustle    and    crackle    the    leaves    injudiciously    in    dry 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.        1 95 

weather,  and — plunge!  down  comes  the  nut,  and — 
splash!  there  he  goes  like  a  twinkling  Into  the  beech — • 
splash!  over  into  the  oak,  there  to  twirl  around  chuck- 
ling down  into  his  hole  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  The 
little  fellows  always  chuckle  in  the  greatest  glee  when 
they  thus  escape  you  and  find  refuge  in  their  hollow 
limbs,  snickering  away  at  you  from  their  safe  old 
strongholds  with  the  most  taunting  derision  and  self- 
assurance. 

I  have  seen  them  make  their  summer  nests.  Once 
I  was  especially  fortunate.  I  had  gone  to  the  woods 
to  sleep  beneath  the  trees;  and,  upon  awaking,  as  I 
was  lying  upon  the  moss  and  gazing  at  the  leaves  above 
me,  I  was  suddenly  further  aroused  by  the  splash  of  a 
large  gray  squirrel  in  the  branches — then  another — and 
another,  from  various  directions,  until  five  had  come 
to  the  rendezvous.  They  were  in  a  walnut-tree  of 
moderate  size,  just  across  the  brook  from  my  resting 
place,  and  I  could  see  them  very  distinctly.  They 
would  bite  off  leafy  sprays  from  the  outstretching 
boughs,  and  then  run  up  the  tree,  and  each  would  fasten 
his  own  sprig  and  twist  it  in  some  way  with  the  other 
twigs  of  the  nest.  It  did  not  take  them  very  long, 
for  they  worked  quite  hard  at  it,  and  in  less  than  an 
hour  they  had  made  quite  a  comfortable  home,  appar- 
ently, for  they  left  off  work,  and  three  of  them  leaped 
away  and  sought  other  employment.  The  two  remain- 
ing may  have  been  a  pair,  and  this  may  have  been  their 
housewarming,  or  a  barn-raising  on  the  part  of  their 
neighbors.  They  soon  went  up  into  their  leafy  cocoon, 
and  did  not  come  out  again  while  I  was  there.  Thoreau 
used  to  climb  the  trees  and  look  into  their  hiding  places, 


196  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

to  see  what  their  nests  were  made  of,  and  how  they 
curled  themselves  up  in  them. 

Wilson  Flagg  rightly  placed  the  squirrel  among  the 
picturesque  animals  in  a  scene;  for,  surely,  with  the 
exception  of  an  antlered  stag,  a  large  gray  or  fox  squir- 
rel is  the  most  picturesque  feature  to  be  found  in  any 
woods,  so  graceful  is  he,  so  alert,  so  associated  with  all 
wildness  and  with  nutting-time.  I  like  to  be  with  them, 
and  to  observe  them  in  their  arboreal  habits.  Watch 
a  sleek  gray  squirrel  when  the  hickory  nuts  first  ripen, 
as  he  twines  around  among  the  thick  foliage  in  search 
of  a  nut,  finally  to  pluck  one  off,  and  then  to  run  back 
to  a  favorite  crotch  or  branch,  and  curl  his  tail  over 
him  and  begin  work.  The  green  hulls  fall  in  bits  all 
around  you,  and  soon  also  pieces  of  the  inside  shells, 
as  he  digs  in  with  his  long  teeth  after  the  rich  kernel; 
or  perhaps  the  whole  nut  may  slip  from  his  grasp,  and 
fall  through  the  leaves  with  a  loud  plunge  to  the 
ground.  He  has  many  such  losses,  however,  and  ac- 
cepts them  philosophically,  as  not  to  be  too  deeply  in- 
quired into.  He  is  "content  with  the  quia,"  as  Dante 
advised  the  human  race  to  be;  and  forthwith,  after  a 
little  pause  of  bewilderment,  runs  out  to  another  twig 
and  finds  another  nut.  There  does  not  seem  to  be  much 
method  in  the  way  squirrels  pick  the  nuts,  running  up 
and  down  at  random,  everywhere  and  anywhere,  as 
they  do;  but  they  generally  manage  to  strip  the  tree. 

The  squirrel  is  the  symbol  of  autumn.  The  way 
to  tell  a  squirrel's  presence  in  the  fall  is  simply  to  wait 
for  the  patter  and  splash  of  the  nutshells  falling  among 
the  leaves.  You  will  frequently  be  aided  also  in  de- 
termining their  local  habitation  by  the  new  scratches 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.        1 97 

of  their  paws  upon  the  bark  of  the  trees  or  along  the 
top   rails   of  the   fences.      Listen!      Yes,   he   is   surely 
there,  and  eagerly  at  work,  and  he  will  not  notice  you 
unless  you  make  too  much  noise;  for  a  squirrel  likes 
his  meals  as  much  as  we  do.     But  shake  a  sapling,  and 
he  will  go  to  the  other  side  of  the  tree,  where  John  can 
hav'e  a  crack  at  him.     I  have  seen  as  many  as  five  in  a 
single  tree,  all  of  them  seated  on  different  limbs,  with 
their  tails  over  their  heads,  and  nuts  in  their  paws,  nib- 
bling away  for  dear  life.     I  have  heard  of  as  many  as 
twenty  being  seen  in  a  single  tree,  in  the  autumn,  mak- 
ing havoc  among  the  nuts;  but  I   rather  suspect  the 
multiplication  table  was  used  in  that  story,  or  the  mag- 
nifying glass,  or  some  other  agency  that  Increased  the 
number.     It  is  a  common  adventure,  this,  however,  in 
autumn,  to  find    several  at  work  in  one  well-stocked 
hickory  or  beech — and  then  what  a  pattering  there  is 
of   the    shucks,    the    ground   being   covered   with   the 
gnawed  bits.     If  these  dropped  pieces  beneath  the  trees 
are  fresh,  then  you  may  know  the  squirrels  have  not 
left  their  feeding  ground,  and  you  can  bide  your  time 
for  them  presently  to  appear.     But,  if  they  are  browned 
over  and  evidently  a  few  days  old.  It  is  likely  the  squir- 
rels have  either  been  killed  or  have  sought  new  and 
better  mast.     They  will  not  always  desert  their  tree,  if 
the  nuts  are  plentiful,  even  though  they  know  you  are 
below,    and  hear  you;   but   they  will   perhaps   simply 
scamper  up  to  the  top  and  there  conceal  themselves  for 
a  time,  perhaps  reaching  for  another  nut  and  eating 
it  there  amid  the  branchlets,  the  numerous  leaves  them- 
selves being  indeed  an  empalement  for  them,  so  that 
you  will  scarcely  discern  them  except  by  the  tossing  or 


198  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

shaking  of  the  foliage.  Frequently  I  have  been  misled 
by  the  sudden  lurching  or  swaying  of  boughs  by  the 
wind  into  believing  that  a  squirrel  was  among  them, 
but  I  never  like  to  risk  a  shot  until  I  am  sure  of  it. 

Gray  squirrels  do  not  have  a  pouch  on  each  side  of 
their  jaws,  like  the  little  ground  squirrels;  but  I  have 
often  seen  them  come  down  a  tree  with  their  cheeks  so 
distended  and  puffed  out  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  must 
have  something  in  them,  part  of  a  nut,  perhaps,  tucked 
away  on  each  side,  making  them  appear  curiously  de- 
formed. But  their  deformity  will  vanish  when  they 
reach  their  holes  or  trysting  places.  Often  one  will 
carry  a  large  walnut,  hull  and  all,  in  his  mouth  to  a 
neighboring  tree,  or  to  some  fence  post,  or  a  top  rail, 
or  a  stump,  or  a  prominent  rock,  or  some  other  favorite 
place,  before  beginning  operations;  and  there  he  will 
sit  and  eat.  Shells  can  frequently  be  seen  in  spots  re- 
mote from  trees,  the  nut  having  been  carried  thither  by 
some  squirrel.  I  have  often  seen  them  bury  nuts,  as 
I  crouched  among  the  saplings;  and  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  shoot  them  at  such  times,  but  would  watch 
them  closely,  and  would  soon  become  more  Interested  in 
rheir  habits  than  I  was  In  my  gun.  Sometimes  It  would 
seem  as  if  a  whole  family  were  at  it  (which  is,  indeed, 
very  likely  the  case),  each  one  making  a  little  dive  into 
the  leaves,  then  putting  the  nut  In,  and  covering  it  or 
not  as  the  whim  seized  him.  And  yet  nearly  every  one 
of  these  hiding  places  Is  known,  and,  if  their  furry  lives 
are  spared,  will  be  found  again  with  remarkably  unerr- 
ing precision  In  winter  through  a  foot  of  snow.  I  have 
seen  holes  In  the  snow  where  the  squirrels  have  dug  at 
once  to  their  store  of  nuts,  but  I  am  Inclined  to  think 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.        199 

that  they  may  search  about  beneath  the  snow  sometimes 
before  they  find  what  they  are  after;  though,  so  far 
as  my  own  observation  goes,  they  seem  to  know  the 
approximate  location,  and  do  not  have  to  go  very  far 
when  they  have  once  delved  beneath  the  white  cover- 
ing. By  what  instinct  of  location  that  is  done  it  is 
probable  that  neither  you  nor  I  can  ever  completely 
know,  though  their  sense  of  smell  undoubtedly  helps 
them.  Perhaps,  however,  if  we  were  squirrels,  we 
should  recognize  the  little  hummocks  and  hollows  of  a 
few  rods  square  as  familiarly  as  we  do  the  slopes  and 
ridges  of  our  fields.  The  accurate  and  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  the  topography  of  their  diminutive  tract,  which 
life  for  some  months  or  years  among  the  trees  has 
given  them,  may  be  the  real  explanation  of  their  ap- 
parently mysterious  intuitions. 

Squirrels  evidently  select  certain  spots  as  their  feed- 
ing grounds.  I  have  seen  the  projecting  ends  of  old 
logs,  or  the  knot  of  a  fallen  limb  jutting  out  from 
amongst  the  leaves,  completely  surrounded  by  a  pile 
of  walnut  hulls,  cast  aside  by  the  squirrel  as  he  gnawed 
into  the  kernels.  They  are  beautiful  little  animals, 
and  it  is  interesting  to  see  them  seated  in  the  crotch  of 
a  tree  or  on  a  fence  rail,  munching  away  at  a  nut  for 
dear  life,  and  sending  the  pieces  of  hull  and  shell  scat- 
tering in  every  direction.  Sometimes,  if  disturbed — 
no  doubt,  as  he  thinks,  rudely — a  squirrel  will  not  give 
up  his  half-gnawed  nut,  but  will  carry  it  with  him 
between  his  teeth  to  a  safer  vantage  point,  and  there 
finish  his  meal.  I  can  hear  their  light  pattering  among 
the  leaves,  as  they  pick  their  way  along  the  ground 
and  jump  from  place  to  place;  though  sometimes,  if  a 


200      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

squirrel  is  suddenly  scared,  one  will  make  as  much  noise 
as  a  dog  or  a  large  animal,  in  his  leaps  down  the  hill- 
side. They  can,  if  necessary,  however,  as  I  have  said, 
be  very  wary,  and  can  slide  along  among  the  dry  fallen 
leaves  with  scarcely  a  sound  to  betray  them. 

The  word  squirrel  means,  from  its  Greek  derivation, 
shadow-tailed;  that  is,  the  squirrel  is  enabled  to  use  its 
tail  for  a  shadow,  which  was  a  conception  character- 
istic of  the  poetic  mind  of  the  Greeks.  Thoreau,  how- 
ever, was  not  quite  satisfied  with  that,  and  made  the 
following  whimsical  suggestion:  "Squirr,  'to  throw  with 
a  jerk,'  seems  to  have  quite  as  much  to  do  with  the 
name  as  the  Greek  'skia,'  'oura,'  shadow  and  tail." 
Yet  the  philologists  are  right,  and  the  historic  deriva- 
tion will  have  to  stand,  no  matter  how  well  the  little 
animal  may  happen  to  fulfill  in  its  motions  the  meaning 
of  this  other  dialect  word  that  Is  spelt  so  much  like 
its  rightful  name. 

I  do  not  believe  that  squirrels  see  distinctly,  unless 
their  attention  Is  drawn  to  an  object  through  fear  or 
some  other  cause.  Then  they  rivet  their  gaze  on  It 
with  something  of  a  ferret-like  intensity  of  look  in  their 
little  black  eyes,  to  crawl  toward  it,  perhaps,  by  short 
leaps  along  a  branch,  or  by  coming  down  gradually  on 
the  trunk,  or  perhaps,  and  more  likely,  to  scamper  away 
with  a  little  "chuck!  chuck!"  I  remember  one  morn- 
ing sitting  at  the  bottom  of  a  hickory,  after  setting  a 
twItch-up,  and  being  nearly  startled  out  of  my  skin  by 
suddenly  hearing  stealthy  scratchings  on  the  bark  just 
at  my  side.  Keeping  as  motlonles  and  still  as  death, 
I  hesitatingly  and  slowly  turned  my  eyeballs  sideways, 
and  there,  within  two  feet  of  me,   on  the  tree  trunk. 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.        20I 

Mas  the  largest  and  most  beautiful  wild  gray  squirrel 
that  I  have  ever  seen.  My  elbows  were  resting  on  my 
knees  and  my  hands  clasped  between  them,  and  by  turn- 
ing my  left  forearm  around  on  its  elbow  I  could  have 
stroked  him.  He  seemed,  and  doubtless  was,  wholly 
unconscious  of  my  presence,  thinking  me  an  old,  moss- 
covered  stump,  perhaps,  and,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
leaped  quietly  to  a  little  maple  sapling  a  few  feet  away, 
and  then  down  among  the  leaves  and  off  toward  the 
brook.  I  suppose  he  never  knew  how  near  he  came 
to  making  friends  with  a  boy  that  day.  On  three  other 
times  also  have  squirrels  been  within  my  reach.  I 
would  have  felt  like  a  murderer  if  I  had  shot  them 
then,  or  at  least  had  not  given  them  a  good  chance  for 
their  lives. 

The  most  provoking  experience,  however,  that  I 
ever  had  was  on  a  similar  occasion,  one  fine,  brisk  morn- 
ing when  I  had  been  out  to  a  woods  on  a  squirrel  hunt 
and  had  been  lucky  enough  to  get  one  big  gray  fellow. 
I  had  him  hanging  from  my  suspenders,  as  all  boys  do, 
by  the  thongs  of  his  hind  legs,  piercing  between  the 
ligaments  and  the  bone  with  my  knife,  close  to  the 
joint,  and  then  inserting  a  slender  but  stout  stick,  or 
twig,  some  few  inches  long  and  with  a  crotch  at  one 
end,  and  supporting  that  stick  at  each  end  by  the  button 
flaps  of  one  side  of  my  suspenders,  letting  the  squirrel 
hang  and  flop  against  me  as  I  walked — prouder  than 
any  king,  and  feeling  as  if  I  had  sprouted  fringes  of 
buckskin  along  the  seams  of  my  corduroys,  and  were 
wearing  beaded  moccasins.  It  began  to  get  far  past 
the  sunrise  and  I  turned  toward  home,  giving  up  any 
further  luck  for  the  day,  and,  seeing  a  large  hawk  in 


202      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

the  crotch  of  a  tree,  I  thoughtlessly  shot  all  the  cart- 
ridges remaining  in  my  magazine  at  the  bird,  which 
still  stayed  perched  there.  But  further  up  the  ridge, 
as  I  was  eating  my  breakfast,  lo !  a  big  gray  squirrel 
came  out  on  a  branch  directly  above  me  not  six  feet 
away.  Now  if  there  was  one  thing  I  detested  it  was 
to  go  home  with  only  one  squirrel;  I  always  wanted  at 
least  two,  and  to  see  three  squirrel  tails  hanging  and 
swinging  together  seemed  something  like  success  and 
roused  my  pride.  Yet  I  had  no  cartridges,  not  even 
one,  and  he  was  going  away!  I  did  not  want  to  see 
him  go,  so,  with  great  recklessness,  I  threw  away  all 
that  I  possessed  and  could  collect  at  him, — potatoes, 
stones,  sticks,  walnuts, — but  all  without  avail,  for,  after 
jumping  to  a  young  hickory  sapling  at  once  and  pro- 
tecting himself  for  a  time  amid  its  twigs,  he  finally 
leaped  to  the  ground  and  scampered  up  an  oak.  On 
another  occasion,  after  a  long  hunt,  and  only  one  squir- 
rel to  show  for  it,  as  it  was  late  in  the  morning  and  the 
squirrels  seemed  to  have  all  gone  on  a  journey,  I  whiled 
away  a  few  moments  before  cooking  breakfast  by 
shooting  the  few  cartridges  I  had  left  at  a  white 
splinter  on  a  tree,  with  such  gratifying  success  as  to 
assuage  a  little  my  solitary  squirrel.  I  evidently  could 
have  hit  another,  I  argued,  could  I  only  have  seen  him. 
At  another  time  we  "cornered"  a  fine  big  fox  squirrel 
in  the  crotch  of  a  walnut,  some  forty  feet  from  the 
ground,  on  the  slope  of  a  steep  ridge,  and  as  we  were 
shooting  at  the  spot  trying  to  drive  him  out,  what 
should  he  do  but  go  out,  and  actually  run  up  to  the 
end  of  the  limb,  and  deliberately  leap  off  into  mid-air, 
and,   apparently  by   flattening   and   stretching   himself 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.        203 

out  as  much  as  possible,  like  a  flying  squirrel,  soar 
gradually  to  the  bottom  of  the  ravine  and  skip  up 
an  oak  into  his  hole.  It  was  the  bravest  thing  I  have 
ever  seen  done  in  the  woods,  for  the  leap  was  at  least 
fifty  feet;  and  the  little  fellow  was  evidently  a  bit  afraid 
of  it,  for  he  hesitated  an  instant  before  taking  It.  But 
things  were  getting  too  warm  for  him,  and  so  off  he 
went.  He  certainly  was  the  General  Putnam  among 
the  squirrels,  and  should  have  been  in  the  charge  at 
Balaklava.  I  hope  he  still  lives  (but  doubt  it),  or  at 
least  that  he  was  not  hurt  by  his  long  aeronautic  ex- 
pedition. 

I  remember  once  being  out  with  my  dog.  I  had 
arisen  before  daybreak,  and  had  tramped  through  the 
dewy  grass  and  weeds  far  Into  the  woods  after  squir- 
rels. It  was  a  clear,  beautiful  morning.  It  had  rained 
the  day  before,  and  I  hoped  thus  to  step  noiselessly 
and  stealthily  up  to  within  a  few  feet  of  them.  Cob- 
webs and  mosquitoes  were  thick  and  annoying,  but  a 
large  bunch  of  pennyroyal  was  a  check  for  the  latter, 
and  the  hunting  passion  was  too  strong  upon  me  to 
mind  the  cobwebs,  which  I  merely  brushed  aside  with 
the  barrel  of  my  rifle.  I  had  not  intended  to  have  the 
dog  go,  for  he  would  sometimes  race  among  the  leaves 
and  scare  the  squirrels,  and  so  I  had  driven  him  back. 
I  always  liked  to  "still  hunt"  best  for  squirrels,  anyway. 
Suddenly,  however,  when  pretty  well  in  the  woods, 
listening  for  the  earliest  barking  chuckle  or  the  first 
splash  in  the  branches,  I  was  startled  by  the  v^ery 
slightest  movement  in  the  path  behind  me;  and,  turn- 
ing, there  was  my  dog.  He  had  followed  me,  even 
after  my  refusal,  bound  to  come.     He  looked  up  Into 


204  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

my  face  with  the  most  beseeching  appeal,  and  I  could 
not  resist  such  language  as  that.  So  he  stayed,  and 
was  even  more  quiet  than  I  was,  following  in  my  steps 
like  an  Indian.  But  there !  the  gray  had  heard  us. 
Three  big  leaps !  In  the  last  he  sprang  from  the  hickory 
toward  a  large  branch  of  a  maple,  some  thirty  feet 
away,  but  missed  his  judgment,  and  passed  beyond 
to  the  trunk,  to  which  he  clung,  and  disappeared  around 
on  the  other  side  in  safety  in  a  twinkling.  I  have 
killed  squirrels  on  the  run,  and  that  with  a  rifle,  but 
I  do  not  care  ordinarily  to  risk  the  shot  with  a  single 
ball,  and  so  I  let  him  go.  The  dog  leaped  and  barked 
and  became  perfectly  wild  with  desire,  so  strong  is  the 
dog's  instinct  for  hunting  and  wild  life.  He  took  a 
run,  with  a  short,  passionate  bark,  and  leaped  up  on 
the  tree  trunk  nearly  ten  feet,  dug  into  the  bark  with 
his  nails,  and  strained  every  fiber  to  reach  the  squirrel, 
who  long  ago  was  safe  away  in  his  hole  and  chuckling. 
But  it  was  a  vain  struggle ;  he  was  made  to  be  a  runner, 
not  a  climber.  In  justice  to  the  dog,  however,  it  should 
be  said  that  in  the  end  we  did  not  return  home  empty- 
handed,  and  that  he  had  his  full  share  of  the  spoils. 
I  used  sometimes  also  to  divide  with  the  cat,  and 
he  certainly  did  enjoy  my  hospitality.  More  than  milk, 
more  than  scraps  of  any  description,  did  that  old  Mal- 
tese like  to  eat  squirrels — even  the  fur, — crunching  it 
down  as  if  he  recognized  their  relationship  to  the 
mouse,  and  so,  in  a  sort  of  penance,  in  lieu  of  the  little 
mice,  made  greater  havoc  by  proxy.  But  he  got  so 
that  he  would  follow  me  to  the  woods,  and  yowl  and 
skip  and  scratch  about  among  the  leaves,  and  so  I 
desisted,  and  remanded  him  to  the  milder  effects  of  his 
previous  diet  of  bread  and  milk. 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.        205 

How  the  squirrels  twine  in  wild  grace  among  the 
limbs,  frisking  their  tails  and  chuckling,  or  perhaps 
giving  a  sudden  start  and  bursting  out  into  a  regular 
landslide  of  barks  and  all  sorts  of  queer,  drawling 
innuendoes  and  exultations !  One  will  sometimes  hug 
a  branch  and  become  almost  a  part  of  it,  so  that  at  a 
distance  he  will  not  look  much  bigger  than  a  knot, 
although  at  the  right  view  the  branch  can  be  seen  to 
swell  out  a  little  where  the  squirrel  is.  One  will,  if 
hard  pressed,  after  taking  refuge,  put  out  his  head 
comically  on  one  side  of  the  limb,  and  there  take  his 
bearings.  I  remember  one  fellow's  hiding  from  me 
in  the  crotch  of  a  tree.  He  was  totally  concealed,  and 
would  have  remained  safe,  except  that  in  congratulat- 
ing himself  at  his  escape  he  would  every  now  and  then 
quirk  up  his  tail  with  a  little  jerk,  and  it  would  wag 
and  wave  in  an  indubitable  revelation  of  his  where- 
abouts. Like  the  ostrich,  he  failed  to  realize  he  had 
other  than  his  head  to  hide.  Sometimes  one  will  lie 
for  hours  stretched  on  the  top  of  a  limb  of  his  size, 
the  only  indication  of  his  presence  being  his  tail  hang- 
ing and  swaying  with  each  breath  of  wind. 

Mulberries  are  a  very  substantial  part  of  the  squir- 
rels' food  in  summer,  but  I  have  not  seen  them  eat  the 
wild  black  cherries  in  the  autumn,  though  deer  will 
browse  upon  the  cherry  sprays  and  pick  up  the  fallen 
fruit  with  the  greatest  relish.  I  have  killed  squirrels 
also  while  munching  the  seeds  of  the  black  gum-tree 
and  winding  among  its  masses  of  berries.  But  in  our 
Northern  country  their  main  dependence  is  the  various 
nuts,  and  they  apparently  enjoy  the  buckeyes  as  well, 
some    buckeye-trees   being    a    regular   rendezvous    for 


2o6  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

them.  Which  kind  of  nut  do  they  like  best?  I  do 
not  know.  They  apparently  have  no  preference,  but 
attack  all  Indiscriminately  and  with  equal  ferocity;  and 
yet  I  have  noticed  that  the  hickories  are  the  first  to  go. 

I  like  to  hear  the  squirrels  bark.  It  Is  a  sound  of 
wild  Nature.  The  bark,  or  call,  of  the  gray  or  fox 
squirrel  is  a  curious  Intermixture  of  squeals,  and  snlcker- 
ings,  and  chucklings,  as  If  he  were  congratulating  him- 
self on  some  extra  good  fortune.  How  one  will  sud- 
denly spring  round  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  give  vent 
to  his  feelings  in  a  rollicking  challenge  of  these 
chuckles,  following  one  after  another  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible— and  then  a  long,  drawn-out  squeal — then  an- 
other series  of  rapidly  issuing  chuckles — and  then  an- 
other long  squeal !  Or  perhaps  he  will  run  up  the  tree 
a  little,  barking  as  he  goes;  or,  breaking  off,  will 
scamper  quickly  to  a  crotch,  and  finish  his  bark  there; 
or  perchance  will  make  two  or  three  stops  before  he  is 
through  with  his  statement.  It  is  one  of  the  sounds 
to  listen  for  In  the  mornings;  for  he  Is  always  inclined 
to  open  the  day  with  this  joking  announcement  of  his 
presence  on  the  arena,  and  he  usually  closes  the  twilight 
with  this  same  queer  drollery  of  the  woods. 

Squirrel  hunting  in  my  boyhood  was  the  most  en- 
joyable thing  we  ev^er  did.  We  entered  Into  It  with  a 
real  zest  for  the  woods.  We  watched  the  sunsets 
according  to  the  Scriptures,  and,  If  the  morrow  looked 
favorable  and  the  wind  was  dying,  we  would  arrange 
for  a  hunt.  Each  would  take  a  separate  ridge  as  his 
special  game  preserve,  but  we  had  a  way  of  signaling 
to  one  another  with  the  Bob  IVhite!  of  the  quail, 
thinking  the  squirrels  would  not  notice  that  familiar 


SQUIRRELS  Ax\D  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.       207 

whistle;  one  call  and  its  answer  merely  getting  our 
bearings,  two  calls  repeated  from  one  of  us  meaning 
danger  over  in  the  other  direction  (when  perchance 
one  perceived  a  squirrel  which  his  fellow  on  the  next 
slope  might  not  see),  and  three  Bob  fVhites!  in  succes- 
sion being  a  summons  to  get  together,  for  a  squirrel 
was  in  limbo  and  we  must  concentrate  forces. 

I  used  to  like  to  listen  to  the  hum  of  insects  in 
the  woods  while  waiting  for  the  squirrels.  The  hunt- 
ing was  not  2i\\  of  it.  I  liked  to  think  of  the  older 
days,  the  days  of  midnight  country  serenades,  of  the 
old-time  and  real  negro  minstrels,  of  Colt's  revolvers, 
and  of  "The  Arkansaw  Traveler."  And  my  boyish 
dreams  were  no  mere  fanciful  or  passing  visions,  but 
were,  in  their  way,  the  symbols  of  convictions  about 
life.  'T  is  a  priceless  heritage,  the  love  for  the  coun- 
try, and,  once  neglected  and  lost,  it  can  not  soon  be 
recovered. 

So,  during  my  hunts,  I  have  not  only  shot  squir- 
rels at  all  seasons  of  the  year,  among  the  buds  of 
springtime,  amidst  the  mulberries  in  the  summer,  up 
in  the  hickories  in  the  autumn,  and  even  on  the  icy 
boughs  of  winter,  but  also  have  killed  them  with  more 
than  one  kind  of  firearm— with  a  .22  Flobert-Rem- 
ington,  with  a  .44  Henry,  with  a  .56  Spencer,  and 
with  muzzle  and  breech  loading  shotguns,  both  single 
and  double  barreled — and  have  tried  my  hand  with  the 
old  cap  and  ball  rifle,  and  have  gone  out  breathing 
forth  slaughter  with  the  more  primitive  weapons  of 
slings  and  stones.  I  have  shot  them  while  seated  in 
crotches  scattering  their  nutshells  below;  and  on  the 
sides  of  the  shagbarks  or  maples,  while  they  listened 

14 


2o8  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

intently  for  suspicious  noises;  or  up  among  the  tossing 
sprays,  as  they  leaped  from  one  bough  to  another; 
and,  again,  on  the  ground,  as  they  played  among  the 
fallen  leaves  or  perched  on  the  stumps  and  logs.  But 
the  crowning  triumph  of  all  was  one  day  when  with 
the  big  .44  I  shot  one  while  on  the  run  at  full  speed 
along  the  outspread  limb  of  a  beech,  some  fifty  yards 
away.  I  have  since  killed  them  with  shotguns  while 
running,  but  never  again  have  I  got  one  on  the  "wing," 
so  to  speak,  with  a  rifle.  For  the  boy  to  learn  first  to 
shoot  with  a  rifle  is  better  than  to  begin  with  a  shot- 
gun. Any  one  can  hit  a  squirrel  with  a  shotgun,  but 
it  requires  considerable  accuracy  of  aim  and  steadiness 
of  nerve  to  bring  one  down  from  the  top  of  a  hickory 
with  but  a  single  bullet,  and  there  Is  more  satisfaction 
in  getting  him  then,  and  more  real  sportsmanship  in 
the  hunting.  It  gives  a  squirrel  at  least  some  chance 
for  his  life  to  hunt  him  with  a  rifle.  Target  practice 
of  some  kind  is  essential  to  keep  up  one's  accuracy  of 
aim,  and  some  of  the  old  beeches  in  the  woods  are 
marked  and  well  stocked  with  lead  from  my  Henry, 
where  I  practiced;  and  I  never  found  that  it  hindered 
my  hunting  with  a  shotgun  to  have  attained  some  skill 
beforehand,  where  it  was  necessary,  in  the  use  of  the 
rifle.  I  used  to  consider  it,  and  It  was,  one  of  the 
greatest  pleasures  I  could  have  to  bring  a  squirrel  down 
with  one  shot  from  my  Henry  from  the  top  of  a  tall 
shagbark  or  a  beech,  to  see  him  fall  and  to  hear  him 
splash  through  the  branches,  and  then  finally  come  with 
a  plunge  and  a  thud  to  the  ground  at  my  feet.  That 
was  a  real  achievement ! 

Sometimes  a  wounded  squirrel  will  manage  to  crawl 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.       209 

away  beneath  the  leaves  or  into  some  hollow  log,  before 
you  can  reach  him  when  he  has  fallen,  or  perhaps  may 
scratch  a  three-legged  way  back,  up  to  his  tree  again; 
and  there  he  will  die,  in  a  lingering  agony,  alone  in 
his  beautiful  coat  of  hair,  upon  the  matted  and  bloody 
leaves. 

Have  you  ever  had  the  "buck  fever"  when  in  the 
woods?  Every  deer  hunter  knows  what  that  is.  I 
have  at  times  been  taken  with  it  when  squirrel  hunting, 
and  my  rifle  would  sway  most  unsteadily  as  I  aimed, 
while  my  arms  were  trembling  in  the  excitement  like 
those  of  a  man  with  ague,  and  beads  of  perspiration 
stood  on  my  brow.  One  does  not  frequently  hit  the 
mark  when  in  such  a  condition;  he  either  pulls  the 
trigger  too  soon  or  too  late,  or  in  some  way  misses. 
Men  do  not  have  it  ordinarily  in  mere  target  prac- 
tice, but  the  presence  of  real,  live  game  at  the  end  of 
the  sights  curiously  affects  a  man. 

To  hear  the  crack  of  a  rifle  in  the  woods  always 
stirs  my  blood.  The  boom  of  a  shotgun  does  not  have 
the  same  music  to  it,  nor  does  it  signify  so  much;  for 
the  rifle  speaks  to  us  of  the  deer,  and  of  a  wilder  life 
than  shooting  on  the  meadows.  I  could  always  tell  the 
sharp  report  of  my  Henry  from  among  the  many  other 
sounds  of  the  guns,  if  I  heard  it  from  a  distance  when 
the  boys  had  borrowed  it  for  the  day.  I  loved  the 
sound  of  it.  Indeed,  a  man's  trusty  rifle  is  almost  as 
much  a  favorite  and  as  good  a  friend  as  his  faithful 
dog.  Leatherstocking,  you  remember,  carved  his 
"marks"  upon  his,  and  notched  the  stock  whenever  he 
killed  a  deer.  So,  I  have  sometimes  seen  names  and 
emblematic  devices  cut  upon  the  wood,  perhaps  while 


2IO  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

the  owner  was  resting  on  a  log,  and  I  imagine,  if  I  had 
followed  Leatherstocking  and  notched  my  Henry  for 
every  squirrel,  it  would  now  be  checkered  like  a  pistol 
grip. 

I  once  bagged  a  squirrel  with  only  half  a  tail.  It 
is  very  possible  that  I  myself  had  been  the  cause  of 
his  loss,  for  I  did  not  hit  all  the  squirrels  I  shot  at, 
and  might  merely  have  cut  through  his  brush.  It  had 
undoubtedly  been  shot  off,  but  the  little  fellow  was  at 
last  to  be  brought  low,  even  after  that  escape — like 
many  a  soldier  who,  after  numerous  battles,  finally 
falls,  shot  in  the  head.  I  recollect  also  killing  two 
squirrels  whose  stomachs  were  simply  bursting  with 
dry,  chewed  nuts.  Whether  there  had  been  a  lack  of 
water  for  them,  and  so  their  food  had  become  too 
dry  to  digest,  or  why  they  were  so  distended,  I  do  not 
know,  unless  they  had  almost  been  starving,  and  had 
suddenly  come  across  a  tree  full  of  fruit  and  had 
gorged  themselves  to  the  utmost. 

The  boys  could  take  a  whole  day  for  squirrel  hunt- 
ing in  pioneer  times,  and  never  go  out  of  the  woods. 
They  had  a  certain  plan,  by  which  they  would  simply 
saunter  along  from  one  wood  lot  through  another  until 
they  reached  the  bluffs  of  the  river,  there  eat  their 
lunch,  and  then  spend  the  afternoon  on  the  stroll  home 
again,  with  perhaps  a  dozen  squirrels  to  show  for 
their  trip. 

I  have  heard  some  fairly  good  yarns  about  squir- 
rels. One  old  man,  I  remember,  who  was  nothing 
loath  to  see  the  eyes  of  his  nephews  distend  almost  to 
bursting  at  his  tales,  related  to  me  one  time  a  long, 
rather  rambling  story  of  a   celebrated   hunt  in  which 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTINC}.       211 

he  and  some  fellow  Xlmrods  took  part,  In  the  days 
when  squirrels  were  as  thick  as  flies,  and  deer  as  thick 
as  squirrels  are  now,  sir.  They  took  the  old  muzzle- 
loader  and  went  out  for  the  day,  when  work  was  slack, 
to  see  which  one  could  kill  the  most  squirrels,  in  a  kind 
of  contest.  No  rabbits  were  to  be  taken  under  any 
consideration.  Now  it  chanced  that  the  lot  fell  to 
him  to  begin  the  contest;  and  he  went  at  it  leisurely, 
he  said,  picking  off  one  or  two  occasionally  as  he  came 
to  them,  and  shooting  them  each  one,  as  the  rule  was, 
in  the  head,  a  miss  of  any  sort  (it  was  understood) 
at  once  forfeiting  the  old  cap  and  ball  to  the  next  in 
line.  The  victims  began  to  pile  up  by  the  dozen  with 
his  unerring  aim,  and  finally  by  scores,  until  he  had  at 
last  shot  sixty-two,  and  all  in  the  head.  Just  at  that 
moment  a  squirrel  was  seen  at  a  short  distance  and  he 
leveled  and  took  aim,  but,  the  sunlight  or  some  other 
objectionable  object  striking  his  eye  at  the  time,  he 
pulled  trigger  just  a  bit  too  soon,  to  see  the  squirrel 
fall,  of  course,  but — alas,  this  time,  shot  in  the  neck! 
Disgraceful !  And  so  he  was  barred  out,  and  the  gun 
passed  to  the  next  competitor.  How  long  the  contest 
lasted,  or  how  many  he  might  have  killed,  if  he  had 
only  hit  that  last  one  in  the  head,  or  how  many  squir- 
rels they  actually  brought  home,  deponent  sayeth  not, 
although  there  was  doubtless  some  foundation  to  the 
story.  I  think  he  once  said  that  the  number  might 
have  been  forty-two,  instead  of  sixty-two,  that  he  got; 
he  could  n't  exactly  remember,  it  was  such  a  common 
occurrence  in  those  days. 

In    Franklin   County,   Ohio,   whose   population   at 
present   is  nearly   one   hundred  thousand   and  whose 


212      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

county  seat  is  Columbus,  there  is  the  tradition  of  a 
squirrel  hunt  in  the  fall  of  1822  which  surely  eclipses 
all  previous  or  subsequent  records.  The  squirrels  hav- 
ing become  quite  numerous  and  threatening  the  farm- 
ers' crops,  and  therefore  a  pest,  a  bounty  was  offered 
for  every  scalp  of  a  squirrel  brought  in;  with  the  result 
that  a  general  ''hunting  caucus"  was  called  for  in  all 
the  various  townships  and  a  mighty  hunt  planned  to  last 
for  several  days,  the  astonishing  total  of  nineteen  thou- 
sand six  hundred  and  sixty  scalps  being  the  outcome  of 
the  slaughter;  nor  was  this  really  all,  for  many  of  the 
hunters  did  not  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  close,  and 
consequently  made  no  returns.  I  think,  after  this,  there 
need  be  no  further  questioning  as  to  the  truthfulness 
of  the  phenomenal  hunting  stories  of  the  early  settlers. 
It  is  a  fact,  however,  that  in  pioneer  times  squir- 
rels— and  big  gray  ones,  too — were  killed  by  the  hun- 
dred where  now  only  one  is  seen.  It  was  an  every-day 
thing  in  grandfather's  day  to  go  out  with  no  other 
weapon  but  a  club,  and  no  trouble  at  all  to  bring  in  a 
few  rabbits  or  squirrels  with  it  for  breakfast.  There 
are  traditions  hereabouts  of  an  old  farm  hand,  in  the 
halcyon  days  when  the  woods  were  well  filled  with 
game,  who  could  throw  a  stone  from  his  hand  with 
about  as  unerring  and  fatal  an  aim  as  any  fair  shot 
with  a  rifle.  He  never  even  took  a  sling,  not  to  speak 
of  a  gun,  but  would,  like  David,  pick  a  few  smooth 
stones  out  of  the  brook,  and  stroll  beneath  the  hickories 
armed  cap-a-pie;  and  he  never  failed  to  bring  back 
enough  squirrels  for  supper.  He  could  hit  three  crows 
out  of  every  five  in  the  top  of  a  big  oak.  And  what 
is  more,  these  facts  are  pretty  generally  authenticated 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.       213 

by  the  corroborations  of  all  who  knew  him.  Such  a 
wild  strain  as  that  is  not  found  nowadays.  It  Is  rare, 
and  truly  native,  and  smacks  a  little  of  the  old  primeval 
forest  life  and  of  genuine  woodcraft.  He  was  like 
the  hero  in  Bulwer's  "A  Strange  Story,"  who  would 
even  climb  the  trees  and  capture  the  squirrels  among 
the   branches. 

One  can  frequently  detect  the  presence  of  squirrels 
by  the  scent  in  the  woods.  Rowland  E.  Robinson 
speaks  of  that  in  his  "New  England  Fields  and 
Woods,"  and  tells  how,  with  the  other  odors  in  spring, 
you  are  made  aware  "by  an  undescribed,  generally  un- 
recognized, pungency  in  the  air  that  a  gray  squirrel 
lives  in  your  neighborhood."  It  is  true,  however,  of 
the  other  seasons  as  well  as  of  spring,  for  there  is 
always  a  peculiarly  woodsy  and  wild,  animal-like  smell 
in  the  haunts  of  squirrels.  One  can  get  a  hint,  when 
a  faint  whiff  reaches  him,  of  the  many  things  that 
dogs  know  which  we  have  but  rarely  even  suggested 
to  us. 

Squirrels  make  very  beautiful  and  winsome  pets. 
In  parks  they  sometimes  become  so  used  to  people  that 
they  lose  their  fear,  and  will  take  peanuts  and  other 
morsels  from  their  hands.  They  can  be  tamed,  and 
have  become  loving  and  trusting  companions  of  men, 
as  human  as  dogs  even,  and  very  cleanly,  and  much  less 
destructive  than  puppies.  They  w^ill,  however,  some- 
times bite  those  whom  they  do  not  know.  The  late 
W.  J.  Stillman  once  wrote  a  very  touching  account 
of  his  delight  in  some  squirrels,  Billy  and  Hans,  that 
he  had  as  pets,  and  of  the  remorse  that  he  felt,  after 
his  intimacy  with  these  captives,  that  he  had  ever  killed 


214  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

or  hunted  any  in  the  woods.  Such  reflections,  how- 
ever, come  later  in  Hfe,  and  are  not  apt  to  suggest 
themselves  to  the  boy  in  the  woods  with  a  gun  on  his 
shoulder.  But,  surely,  these  few  sentences  from  his 
paper  will  commend  themselves  to  every  lover  of  the 
squirrels  :^ 

"I  feel  so  keenly  their  winsome  grace  when  I  can  watch 
them  in  freedom  that  I  can  not  draw  the  line  between  them 
and  myself,  except  that  they  are  worthier  of  life  than  I  am. 
The  evolutionists  tell  us  that  we  are  descended  from  some 
common  ancestor  of  the  monkey.  It  may  be  so;  and  if,  as  has 
been  conjectured  by  one  scientist,  that  was  the  lemur,  which 
is  the  link  between  the  monkey  and  the  squirrel,  I  should  not 
object;  but  I  hope  that  we  branched  out  at  the  Sciurus,  for  I 
would  willingly  be  the  far-off  cousin  of  my  little  pets."^ 

There  are  many  varieties  of  squirrels  in  this  coun- 
try. The  old  woods  boasts  at  least  three,  the  gray,, 
the  fox,  and  the  little  striped  ground  squirrels,  and 
there  were  formerly  many  flying  squirrels.     The  com- 


'  "Billy  and  Hans,"  by  W.  J.  Stillman.  "Century  Magazine," 
February,   1897;    page  623. 

^In  a  more  recent  paper,  entitled  "  Squirrel  Land  "  ("  Century  Mag- 
azine," August,  1905,)  Mr.  Stillman  gives  it  as  his  opinion  that  it  is  the 
sense  of  smell  which  is  the  real  secret  of  the  mystery  of  the  squirrel's  gath- 
ering of  the  hidden  nuts  among  the  leaves.  "They  evidently  smell  them 
in  the  ground,  for  I  myself  have  buried  them  at  the  depth  the  squirrels  use, 
and  they  were  always  dug  up  at  once."  Stillman  also  refutes  the  charge 
that  squirrels  are  depredators  of  bird's  nests  or  destroyers  of  trees,  and  says 
that  the  only  animal  food  that  he  has  ever  known  his  pet  ones  to  take  was 
a  taste  of  bacon,  which  he  offered  them.  Surely  Stillman  had  a  genuine, 
sympathetic  understanding  of  the  squirrels.  Had  he  but  been  more  familiar 
with  our  own  gray  squirrel  of  the  American  forests,  instead  of  the  European 
species,  it  is  possible  that  we  might  have  had  some  still  more  attractive 
studies  of  squirrel  life  from  his  pen. 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.       215 

mon  red  squirrel  of  the  East  is  not  found  here,  and 
I  am  glad  of  it;  for  they  and  the  grays  do  not  often 
agree,  and  the  red  fellows  drive  their  big  gray  brothers 
out,  and  I  like  the  gray  squirrels  better.  The  red 
squirrel  snickers  and  chirrups,  whence  doubtless  his 
name,  the  chickaree;  the  gray  squirrel  barks  and 
chuckles,  and  I  like  him  for  it.  The  red  squirrel  is  a 
ubiquitous  scold,  and  ought  to  be  gagged  or  put  on 
,the  ducking  stool.  I  have  sometimes  killed  big  fox 
squirrels  whose  fur  had  almost  a  tinge  of  black,  thus 
suggesting  that  possibly  they  were  a  cross  between  a 
fox  and  the  black  variety  of  the  gray,  but  I  have  never 
seen  a  genuine  black  squirrel  in  the  woods,  though  they 
are  found  at  times  farther  up  in  the  State.  The  South- 
ern fox  squirrels  have,  however,  frequently  a  darker 
coat  than  our  more  rusty  fellows,  and  It  is  possible 
that  one  of  them  may  have  strayed  up  North. 

The  ground  squirrel,  or  chipmunk  (its  Indian 
name).  Is  a  curious  little  fellow.  He  gives  a  sharp 
chirp,  something  like  a  cricket's,  but  more  Intense, 
whence  one  of  his  names,  the  hackee.  He  is  valueless 
for  food,  being  so  little,  though  his  flesh  is  not  bad 
to  the  taste.  I  have  had  him  sit  perched  at  one  end 
of  a  log  while  I  was  seated  at  the  other,  and  so  long 
as  I  was  motionless  he  would  observe  me  with  apparent 
Indifference,  but  just  as  soon  as  I  made  the  slightest 
motion  his  sharp  squeak  would  strike  my  ear,  and 
whisk!  away  he  would  flit  under  the  log.  This  was 
the  first  kind  of  squirrel  that  I  ever  saw,  when  but  a 
little  child,  and  I  can  well  remember  the  thrill  that 
went  through  my  being  when  I  realized  that  I  had 
actually  seen  a  real  wild  creature  of  the  forest  playing 


2l6  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

about  the  roots  of  an  elm.  Lowell,  in  "An  Indian 
Summer  Reverie,"  thus  very  correctly  describes  the  little 
ground  squirrel's  capering: 

"  The  chipmunk,  on  the  shingly  shagbark's  bough, 
Now  saws,  now  lists  with  downward  eye  and  ear, 
Then  drops  his  nut,  and,  cheeping,  with  a  bound 
Whisks  to  his  winding  fastness  underground." 

It  is  commonly  supposed  that  the  chipmunk  lives 
almost  wholly  upon  the  ground,  but  I  have  seen  him 
crawl  up  into  some  pretty  tall  beeches,  and  there  eat 
the  nuts,  though  of  course  as  a  rule  his  habits  are  of 
the  earth,  earthy.  It  was  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  I 
believe,  who  first  suggested  that  the  gray  squirrel  was 
an  idealist,  always  living  in  the  upper  air  and  climb- 
ing the  trees  to  the  heights. 

The  flying  squirrel  is  another  curious  little  creature, 
with  its  large  dark  eyes  and  singular  parachute  habit 
of  soaring  away  from  one  tree  to  another,  half  animal, 
half  bird.  It  is  the  bat  among  the  squirrels.  Every 
one  knows  of  Thoreau's  experience  in  capturing  and 
bringing  home  a  flying  squirrel  in  his  pocket,  and  then, 
from  pity,  the  next  day  taking  it  back  to  the  stump 
where  he  had  caught  it,  and  letting  it  loose  again. 

Squirrels  will  apparently  migrate  in  feeding  time 
from  one  woods  to  another;  for,  all  of  a  sudden,  in  a 
grove  which  has  been  tenantless  there  will  some  day 
be  heard  the  cheerful  barking  of  the  squirrels  in  num- 
bers on  the  boughs.  They  swim,  too,  and  years  ago, 
when  squirrels  were  more  plentiful,  a  great  drove  of 
them  crossed  the  Miami,  and  the  boys  got  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  river  and  gathered  in  with  clubs 
as  many  as  they  wanted  for  their  respective  dining 
tables. 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.       217 

I  do  not  know  to  what  extent  squirrels  are  in- 
sectivorous, and  yet  I  have  seen  the  old  ones  clamber 
slowly  along  on  the  dead  top  branches  of  a  tree  and 
gnaw  frequently  at  the  bark.  I  know  that  they  eat  the 
bark  of  live  maples  in  the  spring,  but  why  should  they 
nibble  at  this  dead  wood?  Could  they  be  sharpening 
or  cleaning  their  teeth?  It  was  on  a  maple  that  I  saw 
them  in  this  instance,  however,  early  in  spring,  before 
breeding  time,  and  it  may  be  that  they  had  just  come 
from  tasting  the  fresh  sap  of  the  lower  limbs  and  were 
now,  simply  from  curiosity,  testing  the  leafless  upper 
ones.  However,  it  is  well  known  that  they  eat  many 
birds'  eggs  and  the  suspended  chrysalids  of  certain 
butterflies. 

It  is  not  so  often  that  squirrels  have  been  written 
of  at  length  in  literature  or  with  any  great  appreci- 
ation, nor  so  frequently  as  one  would  think,  notwith- 
standing the  great  mass  of  natural  history  books  upon 
them.  I  have  often  wondered  that  Thoreau  was  n't 
fascinated  by  squirrels  more  than  he  seems  to  have 
been.  He  liked  them,  and  they  frisked  about  the 
ridgepole  of  his  house,  and  I  have  just  spoken  of  the 
flying  squirrel  that  he  captured.  But  scarcely  any  one 
that  I  have  read  seems  to  do  full  justice  to  the  beau- 
tiful, graceful,  wild  gray  squirrel  of  our  hardwood 
forests.  Mr.  Burroughs  has  written  pleasantly  about 
them,  and  in  one  of  his  papers  he  quotes  from  a  West- 
ern correspondent  who  was  quite  enthusiastic  over  them. 
Wilson  Flagg  certainly  appreciated  them,  and  I  have 
already  made  mention  of  Stillman's  sensitive  and  ten- 
der tribute.     Mr.  Charles  D.  Lanier  has  also  written 


2l8      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

very  beautifully  of  the  squirrels;  Mr.  Ernest  Ingersoll 
has  shown  himself  a  true  lover  of  them,  and  has  made 
them  a  delightful  study;  Mr.  John  Muir  has  told  some 
interesting  facts  about  the  Western  Douglas  squirrel  in 
his  book  on  "The  Mountains  of  California;"  there  is 
a  good  imitation  of  the  gray  squirrel's  bark  in  Mrs. 
Olive  Thorne  Miller's  "Little  Brothers  of  the  Air;" 
and  do  you  remember  the  squirrels  which  delighted 
Mr.  Jenkin  Lloyd  Jones  when,  with  his  Jess,  he  rested 
in  the  park  of  a  small  Western  town? 

In  a  recent  novel,  too,  Mr.  Irving  Bacheller's 
"Eben  Holden,"  old  Uncle  Eben  trees  a  squirrel  with 
the  help  of  his  dog,  and  then  brings  him  "down  out 
of  the  tree  by  hurling  stones  at  him" — a  method  which 
some  others  of  us  have  tried,  but  have  not  always  been 
able  to  make  successful.  There  is  also  a  quaint  story 
by  Uncle  Eben  of  Squirreltown  and  Frog  Harbor;  and 
the  wild  man  of  the  woods  used  to  trap  squirrels  for 
his  food.  One  of  Frank  Stockton's  stories  is  "The 
Squirrel  Inn." 

In  England  Edward  Jesse  has  written  of  the  squir- 
rel with  much  appreciation  in  his  "Scenes  and  Occu- 
pations of  Country  Life"  and  "Gleanings  in  Natural 
History."  Richard  Jefferies  also  speaks  of  the  squirrel 
more  than  once  in  his  novels,  as  in  "After  London" 
and  "Wood-Magic,"  and  has  this  passage  in  his  essay 
on  "Marlborough  Forest:" 

"High  over  head  in  the  beech-tree  the  squirrel  peeps  down 
from  behind  a  bough — his  long,  bushy  tail  curved  up  over  his 
back,  and  his  bright  eyes  full  of  mischievous  cunning." 

But  perhaps  it  will  pay  us  to  turn  from  these 
jnodern  writers  on  the  squirrel  and  see  what  has  been 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.       219 

said  by  the  older  naturalists  and  lovers  of  the  woods. 
Part  of  the  instruction  for  fly-making,  as  given  by 
Izaak  Walton,  included  the  fur  from  a  squirrel's  tail. 
I  have  happened,  too,  upon  some  quaint  observations 
on  squirrels  in  two  old  and  long-forgotten  writers  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  and,  besides  being  curious  and 
unmodern  in  style  and  point  of  view,  they  really  show 
quite  a  correct  knowledge  of  our  little  furry  brothers. 
Linschoten,  a  traveler,  says  of  the  gray  squirrels  in 
India  that,  besides  being  destructive,  they  "have  a  taile 
like  the  penner  of  an  ink-horne,  and  grayish  speckled 
haire :  they  are  pretie  beasts  to  keep  and  to  passe  the 
time  withall."  And  old  Topsell,  quite  an  observer  for 
his  day,  speaking  of  their  nests,  says: 

"In  summer  time  they  gather  together  abundance  of  fruits 
and  nuttes  for  winter,  even  so  much  as  their  litde  dray  [old 
word  for  nest]  will  holde  and  containe,  which  they  carrie  in 
their  mouthes,  and  they  lodge  manie  times  two  together,  a 
male  and  a  female  (as  I  suppose).  They  sleep  a  great  part 
of  the  winter  like  the  Alpine  mouse,  and  very  soundly,  for  I 
have  seen  when  no  noise  of  hunters  could  wake  them  with 
their  cries,  beating  their  nests  on  the  outside,  and  shooting 
boltes  and  arrowes  through  it,  until  it  were  pulled  asunder, 
wherein  many  times  they  are  found  before  they  be  awaked. 
They  growe  exceeding  tame  and  familiar  to  men  if  they  be 
accustomed  and  taken  when  they  are  young,  for  they  runne  up 
to  mens  shoulders,  and  they  will  oftentimes  sit  upon  their 
handes,  creep  into  their  pockets  for  nuttes,  goe  out  of  doores, 
and  returne  home  againe;  but  if  they  be  taken  alive,  being 
olde,  when  once  they  get  loose,  they  will  never  return  home 
againe.  They  are  very  harmefull,  and  will  eat  all  manner  of 
woolen  garments,  and  if  it  were  not  for  that  discommodity, 


220  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

they  were  sweete-sportful-beastes,  and  are  very  pleasant  play- 
fellows in  a  house." 

William  Gilpin,  the  hermit  of  New  Forest,  in  his 
"Picturesque  Remarks  on  Forest  Scenery,"  has  written 
of  the  squirrel,  but  his  book  was  published  before  the 
forests  were  much  cut  off  in  England.  Gilpin  was  not 
like  Flagg,  for,  singularly,  in  his  account  of  the  animals 
that  inhabited  the  forest,  he  did  not  think  the  squirrel 
of  great  picturesque  importance  among  them ;  yet  is  his 
description  of  one  well  worth  reading: 

"In  the  same  class  [hares  and  rabbits]  we  rank  the  squir- 
rel. He  is  not  of  consequence  to  be  numbered  among  the  pic- 
turesque ornaments  of  a  scene:  but  his  form,  and  manners; 
his  activity,  and  feats  of  dexterity,  are  very  amusing.  On 
extraordinarj'  occasions,  when  he  is  agitated  by  love,  or  anger, 
his  muscles  acquire  tenfold  elasticity.  He  descends  a  tree  in 
a  rapid  spiral,  as  quick  as  thought — darts  up  another  in  an 
opposite  direction — flings  himself  from  tree  to  tree  with  amazing 
exactness — and  pursues  his  mate,  or  his  rival,  among  the  mazy 
branches  of  an  oak,  with  a  velocity  that  eludes  the  sight." 

I  myself  have  seen  them  quarrel,  in  these  later  days, 
one  driving  another  away  from  a  nut-tree. 

Nor  has  the  squirrel  been  overlooked  by  the  poets 
;my  more  than  by  the  naturalists.  It  is  but  to  be  ex- 
pected that  poets  should  like  the  squirrels,  and  I  think 
they  do  them  better  justice.  To  old  Shakespeare  let 
us  go !  For,  if  squirrels  act  not  according  to  his  word, 
there  Is  no  health  in  them.  And,  sure  enough,  we  find 
that  the  squirrel  had  not  escaped  the  notice  of  Shakes- 
peare,  but   Is   associated,   like   an   elf,   with   all   forest 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.       221 

witchery.     Mercutio,  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  says  of 
Queen  Alab  that 

'  Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut, 
Made  by  the  joiner  squirrel  or  old  grub, 
Time  out  of  mind  the  fairies'  coach m akers  :" 

and  in  "A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  Titania  says  to 
Bottom,  in  the  wood, 

"  I  have  a  venturous  fairy  that  shall  seek 

The  squirrel's  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  thence  new  nuts.' 

William  Browne,  too,  an  old  poet  of  the  earlier 
seventeenth  century,  has  left,  in  his  "Brittania's  Pas- 
torals," such  a  really  modern  and  realistic  picture  of  a 
squirrel  hunt  that  I  give  it  here  entire.  It  is  the  best, 
and  only  poetic,  description  of  a  squirrel  hunt  that  I 
know  of  in  literature: 

"  As  a  nimble  squirrel  from  the  wood, 
Ranging  the  hedges  for  his  filbert-food. 
Sits  pertly  on  a  bough  his  brown  nuts  cracking, 
And  from  the  shell  the  sweet  white  kernel  taking, 
Till  with  their  crooks  and  bags  a  sort  of  boys. 
To  share  with  him,  come  with  so  great  a  noise 
That  he  is  forced  to  leave  a  nut  nigh  broke, 
And  for  his  life  leap  to  a  neighbor  oak. 
Thence  to  a  beech,  thence  to  a  row  of  ashes  ; 
Whilst  through  the  quagmires  and  red  water  plashes 
The  boys  run  dabbling  thorough  thick  and  thin. 
One  tears  his  hose,  another  breaks  his  shin, 
This,  torn  and  tatter'd,  hath  with  much  ado 
Got  by  the  briars  ;  and  that  hath  lost  his  shoe  : 
This  drops  his  bands;  and  that  headlong  falls  for  haste  ; 
Another  cries  behind  for  being  last  : 
With  sticks  and  stones,  and  many  a  sounding  hollow. 
The  little  fool  with  no  small  sport  they  follow, 
Whilst  he  from  tree  to  tree,  from  spray  to  spray. 
Gets  to  the  wood,  and  hides  him  in  his  dray." 


222  AROUND  AX  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Surely  he  was  a  fine  poet  who  wrote  that.  And  he 
loved  Nature  otherwise  equally  as  Intimately.  He  was 
the  John  Burroughs  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

Cowper  writes  of  the  squirrel  In  an  Interesting  way 
in  "The  Winter  Walk  at  Noon,"  In  "The  Task:" 

"  Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  some  lonely  elm, 
That  age  or  injury  has  hollow'd  deep, 
Where,  on  his  bed  of  wool  and  matted  leaves. 
He  has  outslept  the  winter,  ventures  forth 
To  frisk  awhile,  and  bask  in  the  warm  sun, 
The  squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play. 
He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird. 
Ascends  the  neighb'ring  beech  ;  there  whisks  his  brush, 
And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps,  and  cries  aloud. 
With  all  the  prettiness  of  feign'd  alarm. 
And  anger  insufficiently  fierce." 

There  are  many  other  references  to  the  squirrel  in 
poetry.  I  shall  give  a  few  of  those  that  have  come 
across  my  notice.  Mrs.  Browning  has  this  passage, 
In  "The  Lost  Bower:" 

"  For  you  hearken  on  your  right  hand, 

How  the  birds  do  leap  and  call 

In  the  greenwood,  out  of  sight  and 

Out  of  reach  and  fear  of  all  ; 

And  the  squirrels  crack  the  filberts  through  their  cheerful  madrigal." 

Coventry  Patmore  also.  In  "The  Angel  In  the  House," 
has  noted  the  squirrel's  love  of  solitude: 

Upon  the  spray  the  squirrel  swung, 
And  careless  songsters,  six  or  seven. 

Sang  lofty  songs  the  leaves  among, 
Fit  for  their  only  listener,  Heaven." 

The  present  poet  laureate,  too,  Mr.  Alfred  Austin, 
in  "At  the  Gate  of  the  Convent,"  has  the  squirrel  seek- 
ing the  forest  cover : 

The  russet  squirrel  frisked  and  leapt 

F'rom  breadth  of  sheen  to  breadth  of  shade." 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.       223 

Shelley  says,  in  "Alastor,"  that  his  solitary  poet 
dwelt  in  the  wild  so  long  that  the  doves  and  squirrels 
would  partake  of  his  food  and  the  antelope  stay  her 
steps  in  admiration.  Would  it  be  possible  nowadays 
for  many  of  us  so  to  cultivate  the  friendships  of  the 
forest?  Must  we  always  think  of  it  as  merely  a  poetic 
fancy?  It  is  said  of  William  Hamilton  Gibson  that 
he  had  such  an  influence  over  the  wild  inhabitants  of 
the  woods,  was  so  en  rapport  with  their  life,  and  had 
so  won  their  confidence  and  trust,  that,  if  he  would  but 
hollow  his  hands  and  hold  them  up  with  a  cooing 
whistle  toward  a  branch,  the  birds  would  nestle  in  their 
cup,  and  the  squirrels  would  come  down  the  great  tree 
trunks  and  let  him  stroke  them  as  they  gazed  wonder- 
Ingly  at  him.  And  how  beautifully  he  has  written 
of  the  secrets  of  the  squirrels  and  all  the  life  of  the 
woods,  and  with  what  perfect  art  in  illustration  has 
he  sympathetically  drawn  their  homes  and  faces. 

In  our  American  poetry,  besides  my  preliminary 
quotation  from  Whittier,  I  recall  a  few  allusions  to 
the  squirrel  in  some  of  Bryant's  poems.  He  says,  in 
his  apostrophe  "Among  the  Trees,"  that  the  kings  of 
the  earth  are  not  arrayed  as  are  the  forest-trees  in 
autumn, 

"  While,  swaying  on  the  sudden  breeze,  ye  fling 
Your  nuts  to  earth,  and  the  brisk  squirrel  comes 
To  gather  them,  and  barks  with  childish  glee, 
And  scampers  with  them  to  his  hollow  oak." 

He  says  that  "the  squirrel  in  the  forest  seeks  his  hollow 
tree"  in  time  of  storm;  that,  while  the  birds  are  sing- 
ing in  the  tree-tops, 

"  Below 
The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 
Chirps  merrily." 
15 


224      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Bryant  also  Is  correct  In  having  the  squirrel  about  in 
winter,  as  in  the  following,  from  "A  Winter  Piece:" 

"  From  his  hollow  tree 
The  squirrel  was  abroad,  gathering  the  nuts 
Just  fallen,  that  asked  the  winter  cold  and  sway 
Of  winter  blast,  to  shake  them  from  their  hold." 

Longfellow  speaks  of  the  squirrel  frequently,  but 
especially  in  this  familiar  passage : 

"  Up  the  oak-tree,  close  beside  him, 
Sprang  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
In  and  out  among  the  branches. 
Coughed  and  chattered  from  the  oak-tree, 
Laughed,  and  said  between  his  laughing, 
'Do  not  shoot  me,  Hiawatha  !'  " 

In  our  recent  verse  I  have  met  with  nothing  better 
than  these  lines  from  a  short  poem  entitled  "When 
Chestnuts  Fall,"  by  Mr.  Joel  Benton: 

"  The  squirrel  now,  half-ambushed,  sees 
His  longed-for  largess  in  the  trees  ; 
A  keen  frost  chills  each  breeze  that  blows, — 


The  squirrel  starts,  alert  with  joy  ; 
An  allied  frenzy  stirs  the  boy  ; 
Marauders  born  they  both  agree 
To  burglarize  each  bounteous  tree  ; 
And  to  their  separate  comrades  call. 
When,  urged  by  frost,  the  chesnuts  fall." 

I  have  not  shot  a  squirrel  for  several  years,  and  I 
do  not  know  that  I  ever  shall  do  so  again,  though  the 
hunting  instinct  is  very  strong,  and  one  does  not  know 
what  he  will  do  when  it  suddenly  comes  upon  him  with 
a  whiff  of  autumn.  But  I  shall  not  soon  forget  my 
feelings  at  my  last  hunt.  Bang! — splash  ! — thud !  I 
ran   quickly   over  to   the   spot.      There   he   lay,    down 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.        22$ 

among  the  nuts  and  leav^es  that  he  had  loved  so  well, 
with  a  few  bright  spots  of  his  life-blood  on  them. 
Poor  little  beauty !  He  had  thought  me  his  best  friend, 
perhaps,  and  I  had  turned  out  to  be  his  worst,  his 
fatal,  foe.  As  he  twitched  his  last  death  spasm,  the 
poor  little  fellow  turned  his  liquid  eyes  upon  me  with 
tearful,  unutterable,  most  pitiful  remonstrance.  Yes, 
I  had  killed  him;  I  had  destroyed  his  life — life  that 
was  once  so  happy  and  graceful  and  beautiful  among 
the  leafy  branches,  but  now  to  be  swaying,  leaping, 
and  chasing,  and  playing  tag  among  them  no  more 
forever.  The  look  of  sad  reproach  in  the  eyes  of  a 
dying  squirrel,  the  death  look,  as  he  languishes  and 
quivers  in  pain,  is  enough  to  fill  the  stoutest  heart 
with  the  deepest  remorse.  No  eyes  among  the  wild 
creatures,  to  my  notion,  of  those  I  have  seen,  are  so 
wondrously  beautiful  as  those  of  the  doe  and  the  squir- 
rel, and  none  are  so  frank  in  their  expressions.  What 
beautiful  creatures  the  gray  squirrels  are!  Their  eyes, 
their  sleek  coat  of  fur,  their  sensitive  ears  and  alert 
body,  full  of  life,  teeming  and  pulsating  with  living 
blood — all  animals  are  like  them,  all  constant  wonders, 
perpetual  miracles!  I  do  not  know  that  we  ought  to 
kill  them. 

Yet  hunting  is  one  of  the  most  humanizing,  if  not 
the  most  so,  of  all  pursuits  that  a  man  can  do  in  the 
open  air.  Most  of  the  hunters  whom  I  have  known 
have  had  natures  brimful  of  the  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness toward  all  the  animals.  Old  William  Cobbett, 
who  was  a  good  friend  of  the  four-footed,  argued  very 
strongly  in  favor  of  the  ethics  of  hunting,  and  believed 
thoroughly  in  its  value.    Why,  we  kill,  by  proxy,  thou- 


226  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

sands  of  cattle  daily  for  the  food  of  the  human  race; 
and  sheep  and  oxen,  after  all,  as  Thoreau  said,  "are 
but  larger  squirrels."  The  majority  of  wild  animals 
that  are  killed  by  man  die  more  or  less  instantaneously; 
and  it  is  true  at  least  of  some  of  them  that  they  would 
otherwise  have  a  lingering,  painful  death  from  star- 
vation, or  sickness,  or  old  age,  alone,  deserted,  or  mal- 
treated by  even  their  own  families. 

I  can  not  refrain  from  closing  this  paper  with  two 
selections  on  hunting  from  Thoreau  and  Dr.  W.  C. 
Gray.  Thoreau  thought  that  his  having  witnessed  the 
killing  of  a  moose  up  in  Maine,  the  destruction  of  one 
of  "God's  own  horses,"  had  lowered  him,  and  expresses 
his  regret  in  these  beautiful  and  inspiring  words: 

"I  already,  and  for  weeks  afterward,  felt  my  nature  the 
coarser  for  this  part  of  my  woodland  experience,  and  was  re- 
minded that  our  life  should  be  lived  as  tenderly  and  daintily 
as  one  would  pluck  a  flower.  .  .  .  Nature  looked  scernly 
upon  me  on  account  of  the  murder  of  the  moose." 

Dr.  Gray  likewise,  though  in  his  time  more  of  a 
hunter,  had  at  last  his  final  hunt,  when,  stricken  by 
remorse,  he  gave  up  the  practice.  He  had  just  shot 
a  deer,  but  had  not  hit  it  fatally,  and  tells  the  conclud- 
ing story  thus  (and  may  it  be  ours  also)  : 

''He  was  helplessly  wounded,  not  killed.  As  I  advanced 
upon  him,  he  fixed  his  large,  lustrous,  frightened  eyes  upon 
me,  and  I  ended  his  life  with  another  shot.  There  he  lay  in 
all  his  purity  and  beauty.  I  was  smitten  to  the  heart  with 
remorse.     I  considered  that  he  had  lived  the  pure  and  innocent 


SQUIRRELS  AND  SQUIRREL  HUNTING.        22/ 

life  of  Nature,   had  never  harmed  any  one  or  anythin<i.  and 
there  he  lay,  the  victim  of  an  invader  and  murderer. 

"This  ended  my  hunting,  a  favorite  sport  of  more  than 
half  a  century,  and  which  had  the  double  attraction  that  it  led 
me  deep  into  the  solitudes  of  Nature,  with  their  unfading 
freshness  and  unfailing  charms." 


A    SQUIRREL  S    HOME. 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  MY  DOG. 


MAX   S    BEST   FRIEND. 


"I  humbly  thank  Divine  Providence  for  having  invented  dogs,  and  I 
regard  that  man  with  wondering  pity  who  can  lead  a  dogless  life." 

—Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton. 

EN  like  dogs,  and  always  have  liked 
them,  from  the  time  when  Ulysses  re- 
turned from  his  long  voyage  and  was 
recognized  by  his  old  dog  Argos. 
Dogs  are  generally  so  open,  frank,  and 
sincere  in  their  natures  and  actions, 
and  so  receptive  and  eager  to  learn, 
.  and  so  intelligent,  that  men  find  them, 
the  best  of  companions  by  the  fireside 
or  in  the  woods.  They  are  naturally 
cleanly,  too,  and  can  be  taught  to  be  a  great  deal  more 
decent  than  thousands  upon  thousands  of  men  are, 
and  they  like  to  be  so.  A  well-bred  dog  is  very  much 
of  a  gentleman;  and  he  quite  consistently  selects  a 
true  man  as  his  highest  ideal,  and  is  always  content 
when  in  his  presence. 

How  beautiful  is  the  head  of  a  dog!  How  liquid 
and  winsome  the  eyes,  and  how  wonderingly  they  look 
up  into  ours !  The  dog  is  man's  most  faithful  friend. 
He  has  become  much  nearer  to  man  in  his  life  than 
has  any  other  animal.  He  eats  to  a  great  extent  the 
same  food:  often  lives  under  the  same  roof;  learns  to 

228 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  MY  DOG.  229 

understand  more  of  our  words  than  any  other  animal; 
and  frequently  shows  his  intelligence  and  appreciation 
in  ways  that  reveal  unmistakably  real  affection  and 
character.  He  has  more  of  humanity  to  him  than  any 
other  animal.  He  protects  us  and  watches  over  us  at 
night;  saves  us  when  in  danger;  cries  and  whines  with 
us  in  sympathy  when  in  pain;  and  plays  with  us  in  mad 
joy  when  we  condescend  to  notice  and  to  laugh  with 
him.     Yes,  the  dog  is  a  little  man! 

The  dog  has  found  an  enduring  place  in  our  liter- 
ature in  the  poetry  of  Shakespeare  and  Scott  and  Mrs. 
Browning,  and  in  the  beautiful  and  well-known  story, 
and  the  most  exquisite  bit  of  pathos  in  all  English 
literature,  too,  "Rab  and  His  Friends,"  by  Dr.  John 
Brown.  There  have  been  a  number  of  books  written 
about  the  dog.  Edward  Jesse's  "Anecdotes  of  Dogs" 
is  a  very  interesting  compilation  bearing  on  the  intelli- 
gence and  affection  of  these  animals.  There  lately  also 
appeared  an  anthology  entitled  "Praise  of  the  Dog," 
by  Ethel  E.  Bicknell.  More  recently,  his  heroism  and 
prowess  have  again  been  celebrated  in  "Bob,  Son  of 
Battle,"  by  Mr.  Alfred  Ollivant,  "The  Call  of  the 
Wild,"  by  Mr.  Jack  London,  and  "The  Bar  Sinister," 
by  Mr.  Richard  Harding  Davis.  There  are  two  other 
books  worth  mentioning — "Diomed:  The  Life,  Trav- 
els, and  Adventures  of  a  Dog,"  by  Mr.  J.  S.  Wise, 
and  Mrs.  Sarah  Knowles  Bolton's  volume  upon  "Our 
Devoted  Friend  the  Dog."  Of  the  many  magazine 
articles  relating  to  the  dog  I  recollect  especially  Mr. 
John  Muir's  account  of  his  adventures  among  the  gla- 
ciers with  Stickeen,  and  Mark  Twain's  protest  against 
the    prevalent   vivisection   entitled    "A    Dog's   Tale." 


230      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Mr.  Henry  van  Dyke,  too,  has  written  a  good  story 
of  a  dog  called  "A  Friend  of  Justice,"  in  "The  Ruling 
Passion."  When  his  master  first  patted  him  on  the 
head,  runs  the  tale,  "the  dog  looked  up  in  the  man's 
face  as  if  he  had  found  his  God."  His  master  put 
a  cross  over  his  grave.  "Being  French,"  said  he,  "I 
suppose  he  was  a  Catholic.  But  I  '11  swear  he  was  a 
Christian." 

Shakespeare  speaks  of  the  baying  of  the  dog  as  in 
itself  music;  and  who  that  has  ever  heard  it  can  forget 
the  deep,  bell-like,  echoing  tones  of  a  hound  in  the  dis- 
tance as  he  scents  his  game  in  a  chase  among  the  hills? 
We  find  the  dog  remembered  in  many  of  the  finest 
paintings  and  hunting  pictures,  in  numberless  photo- 
graphs, and  in  occasional  dog  statuary.  Indeed,  there 
can  be  few  more  inspiring  subjects  for  an  artist  who 
loves  animals  than  a  well-formed,  healthy  dog  in  a 
graceful,  eager  poise. 

In  the  chase  or  in  the  library  the  dog  will  always 
be  close  to  man's  heart. 

n. 

"Tears  are  in  my  eyes  to  feel 
Thou  art  made  so  straitly." 
—Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning:  "To  Flush,  my  Dog." 

Lord  Bacox  said  that  man  was  the  god  of  the 
dog;  and  if  it  be  not  true,  it  ought  to  be  true.  For  no 
dependent  creature  so  well  deserves  man's  good  inten- 
tions and  care,  or  should  have  so  fine  an  example  set 
before  him,  as  the  dog. 

We  make  companions  of  dogs;  we  enjoy  their 
being  with  us  and  our  being  with  them.     And  yet  we 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  MY  DOG.  23 1 

do  not  know  all  of  their  life;  we  can  not  enter  the 
source  of  their  thoughts  or  impulses  any  more  than 
we  can  penetrate  to  the  inner  personality  of  a  fellow- 
man,  and  see  with  his  eyes,  and  think  with  his  mind. 
I  suppose  that  there  will  always  be  a  certain  sphere 
of  existence  wherein  every  being  lives  absolutely  alone, 
unrevealed,  save  by  outward  tokens,  in  the  citadel  of 
his  own  soul.  This  I  believe  to  be  true  of  dogs  and 
horses  and  the  other  animals.  We  know  something 
of  them,  but  it  is  not  a  great  deal,  and  perhaps  they 
know  as  much  of  us  as  we  do  of  them.  It  was  Dr. 
McCosh,  I  believe,  who,  when  asked  whether  a  dog, 
in  baying  at  the  moon,  actually  conceived  of  the  moon 
as  a  separate  mass  of  matter  in  the  skies,  or  merely 
perceived  its  shining  face  coming  up  across  the  great 
dome  and  barked  at  it  in  a  sort  of  superstition,  re- 
plied, with  his  characteristic  Scotch  humor,  "I  do  not 
know;  I  have  never  been  a  dog." 

We  can  not,  we  do  not,  know  all  that  passes  in  a 
dog's  mind,  his  memories,  his  thoughts,  if  he  has  any, 
or  whether  he  lives  only  in  the  present,  after  all.  That 
they  have  dreams,  we  know.  I  have  seen  my  little  dog 
lying  in  deep,  snoring  sleep,  when  suddenly  he  would 
begin  wagging  his  tail  up  and  down  against  the  floor, 
or  would  paw  with  his  forefeet  as  if  digging;  and, 
when  awakened,  he  would  look  about  him  in  a  dazed 
way  in  the  most  amazed  fashion — just  like  a  human 
being,  with  the  memory  of  a  dream.  And  I  remember 
once,  out  at  a  farm  where  the  dog's  chief  master  and 
companion  had  been  away  for  a  time,  when  T  by  chance 
put  on  his  master's  old  canvas  coat  one  morning,  the 
dog,  when  he  first  saw  me,  bounded  toward  me  with  a 


232      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD 

look  of  recognition  and  with  eyes  bright,  only  to  calm 
down  considerably  when  he  found  who  it  was  wear- 
ing the  coat.  He  had  always  liked  me,  but  it  was  the 
old  coat  which  he  had  recognized,  and  I  believe  it  had 
brought  back  to  him  somehow  the  memory  of  his 
master  whom  he  had  loved  so  well.  Many  instances 
similar  to  this  have  come  to  my  notice  of  the  memory 
of  dogs.  I  have  had  a  dog  friend  recognize  me  at 
once  after  a  long  absence  of  months.  I  have  seen  a 
dog  pine  and  howl  in  dismal  grief  at  the  memory  of 
a  dead  master.  Dogs  are  very  human,  after  all. 
Could  they  but  tell  us — well,  they  could  tell  much! 
I  have  had  dogs  come  to  me,  and  endeavor  with  the 
most  singular  gulps  and  queer  little  sounds  of  the 
throat  to  tell  me  (as  I  supposed)  some  tale  of  their 
own,  which  I  did  not  know.  They  can,  and  do,  in- 
dicate many  things  to  us  very  readily  by  their  actions, 
but  their  physical  make-up  is  such  that  they  can  not 
tell  us  all  they  might.  We  can  only  judge  them  im- 
perfectly by  human  analogy,  and  so  do  not  know  the 
whole  truth  about  them.  They  have,  too,  a  range 
of  life  which  is  all  their  own,  and  which  we  do  not 
experience.  If  we  but  had  the  keen  scent  of  the  dog, 
the  quick  hearing  of  the  deer,  and  the  eyesight  of  the 
eagle,  what  would  we  not  enjoy  in  our  walks  through 
the  woods  and  meadows ! 

A  man  was  watching  my  dog  one  day,  and  com- 
menting upon  his  intelligence.  "Well,  sir,"  said  he, 
"they  're  good  companions,  T  tell  you.  I  Ve  never  yet 
seen  one  that  was  n't."  And  I  could  heartily  agree 
with  him  that,  for  the  right  man,  there  is  no  better 
friend  than  a  dog,  nor  one  more  appreciative  of  man's 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  MY  DOG.  233 

kindness.  The  possibility  of  real  companionship  with 
a  dog  is  well  illustrated  in  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton's 
account  of  his  etching  voyage,  entitled  "The  Unknown 
River,"  on  which  Tom,  the  dog,  had  "the  satisfaction 
of  dining  with  his  master  on  terms  of  something  like 
equality."  The  sharing  of  his  meals  with  his  dog  has 
from  time  immemorial  been  the  sworn  motto  of  every 
true  sportsman.  Nay,  furthermore,  so  says  Mr.  Jen- 
kin  Lloyd  Jones,  in  his  "Jess,"  "  'Love  me,  love  my 
dog,'  is  the  chivalrous  demand  of  man  upon  his  brother 
man."  It  was  the  pathetic  lament  of  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
when  he  returned  to  his  native  hamlet  after  his  long 
sleep  in  the  Catskills,  "My  very  dog  has  forgotten  me !" 

I  like  to  watch  a  dog  dig  after  a  rabbit,  or  a  wood 
mouse,  or  other  "such  small  deer,"  as  Shakespeare  calls 
them.  How  he  will  tear  roots  and  every  obstacle  away 
in  his  frenzy  to  get  at  his  quarry!  When  he  first  has 
cornered  his  game  In  his  den  he  will  put  his  nose  care- 
fully in  and  take  a  good  sniff;  then  a  little  vigorous 
digging;  and  then  another  sniff;  then  still  more  vigor- 
ous digging ;  and  then  he  pulls  the  earth  away  with  his 
paws,  gets  down  close  to  the  ground,  and  takes  a  good 
long  smell  of  the  imprisoned  game.  Yes,  he  certainly 
is  there!  And  then  he  goes  at  it  with  perfect  fury, 
scattering  dirt,  stones,  leaves,  sticks,  and  the  whole  of 
the  obstructing  matter  to  the  wild  winds.  Perhaps  he 
may  have  to  be  called  away  by  his  master;  but  if  he 
can  only  get  his  rabbit  or  mouse,  what  a  proud  dog  he 
will  be,  and  how  his  eyes  will  brighten  and  his  tail  wag 
as  he  brings  it  and  lays  it  at  his  master's  feet! 

Many  a  battle  royal  do  dogs  have  with  snakes, 
shaking  them  and  dragging  them  in  triumph,  like  the 


234  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

body  of  Hector,  in  the  dust.  I  know  of  one  old  shep- 
herd who  could,  so  runs  tradition,  snap  the  head  off 
from  a  snake  by  n  single  shake.  But  dogs  are  very 
wary,  and  always  see  to  it  that  they  catch  the  snake  by 
the  tail.  One  of  a  dog's  chief  delights  in  the  country 
is  to  dig  out  the  moles  in  the  garden.  There  is  noth- 
ing, however,  a  dog  likes  so  much  as  to  get  after  a  cat. 
Both  seem  to  enjoy  the  sport.  The  dog,  with  all  his 
tremendous  onslaught,  will  only  approach  within  just 
a  certain  distance,  when  he  will  lie  down  and  paw  at 
her  with  one  forepaw,  or  eye  her  intently  and  wag  his 
tail  vigorously  and  bark.  When,  all  of  a  sudden,  spit 
and  spit  fire,  and  she  arches  her  back  and  growls  and 
snarls,  and  up  he  is  like  a  flash,  scared  but  eager  for 
the  fray;  and  so  they  will  often  keep  it  up  for  half  a 
day.  Yet  I  have  seen  cats  and  dogs  thoroughly  fond 
of  one  another,  the  cat  even  lying  down  and  sleeping 
against  a  dog,  and  resting  her  head  down  in  among 
his  thick,  glossy  coat  of  hair.  Assuredly,  they  had 
cast  aside  the  law  of  tooth  and  ravine. 

Dogs  apparently  calculate  and  judge  just  about  as 
we  do  in  similar  circumstances.  They  reach  conclusions 
pretty  rapidly  sometimes,  just  where  and  when  to  jump 
or  pounce  after  a  rat  or  a  mole  or  a  rabbit,  and,  so 
far  as  their  life  goes,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  precisely 
like  our  life. 

III. 

"There  is  but  one  dra'wback  to  a  dog's  friendship.  It  does  not  last 
long:  enough." 

— Henry  van  Dyke. 

Not  long  since  I  owned  a  very  intelligent  fox  ter- 
rier, by  name  McChesney.  He  was  a  little  four-footed 
friend  whom   I  loved,  and  who  loved  me.      We  took 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  MV  DOG.  235 

walks  together  in  the  woods  and  the  sweet  grass,  and 
he  romped  and  leaped  in  health  and  joy  and  friendship. 
But  one  morning  a  few  springs  ago  he  darted  away 
from  the  house  for  a  few  moments,  never  to  be  seen 
again  by  me  since  then.  How  long  it  was  before  I 
regained  spirits  at  the  loss  of  the  beautiful  little  fellow 
I  do  not  know;  but  I  shall  never  forget  him,  for  I 
have  found  few  men  like  him.  All  that  is  left  of 
Mac  now  is  an  old  newspaper  advertisement  for  him, 
two  scratches  on  the  hardwood  floor,  his  collar,  and 
a  loving  and  inspiring  memory.  I  have  wondered 
whether  I  am  never  to  see  this  best  and  most  loyal  of 
earthly  friends  again.  Shall  we  not  look  into  each 
other's   eyes   once   more? 

Some  of  the  happiest  experiences  in  my  life  have 
been  in  the  woods  with  him.  He  would  always  dart 
away  ahead  of  me  deep  into  the  woods,  only  to  peep 
suddenly  above  some  little  knoll  to  see  if  I  were  still 
coming;  or,  if  he  caught  the  scent  of  a  rabbit  and 
rushed  away  with  a  little  yelp,  it  was  not  long  before 
he  would  be  dashing  past  me  again,  as  I  walked  on, 
or,  if  I  sat  on  a  log  for  a  short  rest,  would  come  to 
me  with  wagging  tail  and  look  up  to  me  with  a  gulp  of 
friendliness. 

Little  IVIac  has  become  to  me  a  symbol — a  symbol 
of  fidelity,  trust,  loyalty,  love,  and  the  innate  beauty 
and  purity  of  life.  Often  has  he  lain  in  my  lap  and 
looked  up  at  me  with  wagging  tail,  or  has  sat  there 
and  looked  straight  into  my  eyes,  and  when  I  would 
lean  my  head  on  my  hand  often  has  he  laid  his  little 
black-and-tan  head  next  to  mine,  on  my  hand,  in  mute 
affection.      Yes !   my  little   four-footed   friend,    I   have 


236      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD 

learned  more  from  you  and  your  glossy  coat  of  hair 
than  from  many  men,  more  of  what  life  is  and  should 
be;  and,  if  there  is  to  be  any  heaven  for  righteousness 
of  disposition,  or  any  reward  hereafter  for  faith  and 
forgiveness  and  loyalty  to  a  master,  then  I  certainly 
hope  to  see  you  again — somewhere,  surely,  in  dog- 
Heaven,  wherever  that  may  be ! 

I  believe  in  the  immortality  of  animals,  not  only 
because  they  deserve  immortality  and  live  the  same  life 
that  we  do,  and  because  there  is  nothing  whatever  in 
the  Bible  against  it,  but  its  whole  spirit,  in  all  that  it 
has  to  say  of  animals,  is  decidedly  for  it,  but  also  be- 
cause, if  these  beautiful  forms  of  life  that  have  been 
our  friends  and  neighbors  on  earth  live  not  again, 
existence  itself  is  an  anomaly.  Their  loss,  if  they  perish 
forever  at  death,  is  an  irreparable,  a  perpetual  loss, 
and  their  love  and  friendship  are  all  the  more  terrible 
in  their  pathetic  cruelty  of  fate  and  chance.  Why 
should  the  loss  of  such  friends  be  forever?  Is  it  in 
vain  that  beauty  has  been  created  in  such  forms?  Can 
it  be  that  the  eyes  of  a  dog  who  loves  us  now  shall  look 
no  more  into  ours,  but  be  turned  forever  into  dust? 
If  so,  then  is  grief  absolutely  inexplicable,  and  life 
utterly  blank  and  hopeless  for  all  living  creatures.  For 
the  lower  animals  are  supported  by  the  same  life- 
principle  that  we  have,  and  share  the  same  earth  that 
we  enjoy,  and,  so  far  as  they  go,  their  mental  processes 
seem  to  be  precisely  like  ours.  Unless  it  be  so  that  all 
the  creation  shall  finally  be  resolved  into  annihilation 
and  no  living  creature  live  after  death,  I  can  never  give 
up  my  hope  in  the  immortality  of  our  dumb  animal 
friends.     But  that  is  a  word  of  despair,  and  no  lover 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  MY  DOG.  237 

of  life  should  be  without  at  least  a  lingering  hope  in 
its  perpetuation,  which  should  grow  into  a  practical 
certainty  the  more  he  sees  and  knows  of  all  that  is  in- 
cluded in  our  word  Nature. 

Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that,  because  it  says  that 
we  are  of  more  value  than  sheep  and  sparrows,  Chris- 
tianity therefore  says  that  I  shall  never  see  my  dog 
again,  and  that  all  the  unspeakable  beauty  and  tender- 
ness and  infinity  and  mystery  of  Nature  are  a  mere 
phantasm  and  a  delusion?  Well,  I  say  that  the  New 
Testament  gives  us  no  such  message,  but  that  it  comes 
with  a  great  hope  to  all  lovers  of  God's  beautiful 
creation.  The  untold  suffering  of  all  earthly  organ- 
isms is  not  to  be  without  compensation,  but  there  shall 
be  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth!  I,  for  one,  rejoice 
that  the  Indian  buries  with  him  his  bows  and  arrows, 
and  lies  down  to  dream  of  the  Happy  Hunting 
Grounds,  and 

"  Thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 

His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company." 

No,  my  dog's  loss  is  no  new  thing  under  the  sun. 
There  has  simply  come  to  him  and  me  what  is  the 
common  experience  of  all  the  world — grief.  It  has 
occasioned  no  great  surprise,  for  it  is  the  general  lot 
of  man,  nor  has  it  caused  any  revolution  in  Nature 
as  if  at  the  unlooked-for  presence  of  some  terrible  and 
heartless  destroyer.  Nature  remains  the  same,  and 
when  I  go  to  the  woods  the  beautiful  green  trees  are 
as  inspiring  as  ever,  the  thrushes  sing  as  exquisitely, 
and  the  gray  squirrels  stir  the  old  hunter  in  me  just  as 
powerfully.  But  I  miss  something  in  my  walks  now. 
No  more  does  a  little  black  nose  sniff  among  the  leaves 


238      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

and  roots,  and  push  itself  under  my  hand,  in  his  dog- 
gish ways.  No  more  do  I  hear  his  answering  little  bark 
when  I  whistle. 

]Mac  did  n't  amount  to  a  great  deal  in  practical  use- 
fulness, although  he  did  what  he  could  even  in  that 
line.  He  never  learned  to  hunt  (though  how  he  loved 
the  woods ! ) ,  but  he  was  a  good  watch-dog,  and  as 
fatal  a  mouse  catcher  as  the  best  trap.  No,  I  can 
never  play  the  traitor  to  Mac,  and  say  that  he  had  his 
blemishes,  and  that  perhaps  another  dog  would  take  his 
place  better.  It  is  true,  he  did  have  his  little  stub- 
bornnesses; but  he  really  never  meant  harm  to  his  fellow 
dogs  (except  for  self-protection,  when  he  showed  the 
pluck  of  a  bulldog)  or  to  any  living  thing,  and  he  won 
his  way  through  life  by  the  most  winsome  and  loving 
ways,  and  we  were  all  the  better  for  his  little  presence. 
I  have  seldom  seen  in  man  or  beast  an  instance  of 
truer,  sincerer  appreciation  of  kindnesses  and  evident 
gratitude  for  them.  And  so  I  loved  him  with  my 
whole  heart. 

Mac  was  my  first  dog.  I  taught  him  all  his  dozen 
tricks;  and  how  he  did  enjoy  and  relish  their  perform- 
ance !  He  and  I  understood  one  another  perfectly.  I 
can  not  possibly  forget  him.  It  is  painful  to  know 
grief,  even  for  a  dog;  and  I  can  never  think  of  him 
without  a  pang.  But  his — even  with  the  pain — will 
always  be  a  pleasant  memory.  I  can  only  hope  that 
he  has  fallen  into  good  hands. 


MAC  S    COLLAR. 


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APPI-E   BLOSSOMS 


THE  ORCHARD. 

"  The  apple-boughs  enrw-ine 
And  make  a  network  fine. 
Through  which  the  morninK  vapours  pass. 
That  rise  from  off  the  dewy  grass. 

"  And  when  the  spring-warmth  shoots 
Along  the  apple  roots. 
The  gnarled  old  boughs  grow  full  of  buds 
That  gleam  and  leaf  in  multitudes. 

"And  then,  first  cold  and  ^vhite. 
Soon  flushing  with  delight. 
The  blossom-heads  come  out  and  blo^v. 
And  mimic  sunset-tinted  snow." 

—Edmund  Gosse. 

"Nay,  you  shall  see  my  orchard,  where,  in  an 
arbor,  we  'will  eat  a  last  year's  pippin  of  my  own  gnif- 
fing,  with  a  dish  of  cara^^ays  and  so  forth ;  —  come. 
Cousin  Silence." 

—2  Henry  IV. 

Y  the  orchard  we  generally  mean  an 
apple  orchard,  and  one  toward  de- 
cay; for  somehow,  with  their  great 
extending  limbs,  flaked  with  straggling 
bark  and  mottled  with  lichens,  the  old- 
time  apple-trees  are  the  most  poetic.  They 
were  planted  years  ago  by  our  forefathers, 
and  have  the  picturesque  look  of  age.  A 
newer  orchard  may  be  neater,  and  means  per- 
haps more  money,  but  it  takes  one  of  the 
old-time  orchards,  with  its  immense  boughs  and  tall 
masses  of  branches  and  sprays,  rich  and  luscious  with 
old-time  apples,  to  arouse  sentiment. 

The  old-time  varieties,  too,  were  the  best,  and  can 
not  always  now  be  reduplicated — the  big  yellow  Bell- 

241 


242      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

flower,  the  speckled  Fall  Pippin,  the  striped  Northern 
Spy,  the  crimson  Smith's  Cider,  the  red  Baldwin,  the 
deeper-colored  Canada  Red,  the  Rhode  Island  Green- 
ing (for  even  "Little  Rhody"  gave  a  name  to  a  famous 
apple)  ;  and  so  with  all  the  other  kinds — the  Rambo, 
Astrachan,  Seek-no-farther,  Winesap,  Ben  Davis,  Rome 
Beauty — each  has  its  own  distinctive  markings  and  its 
own  unique  taste  among  its  rivals. 

There  are  sweet  apples,  like  the  large  greenish- 
yellow,  sheep-nosed  Bough  Apple,  or  the  Pumpkin 
Sweet;  there  are  sour  apples,  like  the  Maiden's  Blush 
and  Summer  Queen;  there  are  those  that  are  half-and- 
half,  like  the  delicious  Tulpehocken;  and  there  are  the 
acrid  Siberian  Crabs.  Some  come  to  maturity  early  In 
summer,  like  the  little  Strawberry  Apple,  some  in  time 
of  harvest,  like  the  Harvest  Apple  and  the  Cathead; 
but  most  ripen  In  the  fall,  though  a  few  hang  on  even 
to  the  winter,  and  are  best  fitted  to  be  eaten  in  the  fol- 
lowing spring.  The  autumn,  however,  is  the  typical 
season  for  apples.  Then  is  the  time  for  the  picking  of 
the  fruit,  or  the  shaking  of  the  boughs  for  those  that 
are  to  be  used  for  cider.  It  Is  well,  if  you  want  to 
select  and  improve  your  apples,  to  have  a  preliminary 
thinning  out  of  the  inferior  ones  first  (Nature  will  help 
you  by  some  windfalls),  leaving  the  largest  and  best 
fellows  to  grow  into  still  more  tempting  dimensions 
(which  they  will  do)  by  appropriating  the  strength  of 
the  tree  thereafter  for  themselves  alone.  They  must 
be  handled  carefully,  so  as  not  to  be  bruised;  a  sack 
slung  about  the  shoulders  is  better  than  a  basket.  Ah, 
I  am  up  in  the  trees  again  among  them.  The  bough 
is  fairly  exhausted,  bending  almost  to  breaking,  with 


PICKING  APPLES. 


THE  ORCHARD.  245 

their  weight.  I  see  them  peeping  at  me  from  under 
every  leaf,  and  hanging  In  innumerable  sphericles, 
round  shapes  everywhere,  ripe  and  ready  for  the  har- 
vest. I  reach  and  pull  them  to  me,  and,  turning  one 
back  a  little,  it  breaks  from  its  twig,  dead  ripe,  and  is 
soon  fulfilling  its  intended  usefulness;  or  perhaps,  upon 
being  jostled,  one  falls  on  my  shoulder,  in  a  tap,  as 
it  were,  of  friendly  recognition,  bidding  its  last  good- 
bye, and  then  thumps  and  bounces  at  my  feet.  Others 
are  not  quite  so  mature,  and  these  are  the  ones  for  the 
market.  My  sack  is  soon  full,  and  I  step  down  the 
ladder,  and  gently  pour  them  out  into  one  of  the 
bushel  baskets;  another  is  soon  emptying  his,  and  be- 
fore long  the  first  basket  is  heaped  and  running  over. 
Later,  and  these  will  all  be  hauled  up  to  the  barn,  and 
there  be  still  further  sorted  into  four  distinct  classes: 
the  ripe  ones  (to  eat),  the  little,  knotty,  specked  ones 
(for  the  hogs),  the  medium-sized  ones  (for  the  can- 
ning) ,  and  the  large,  fine-looking.  Imposing  fellows 
(for  the  market).  Sometimes,  indeed,  all  these  last 
do  not  find  their  way  to  a  market,  but  go  the  familiar 
road  of  the  kitchen  and  the  evening  circle  about  the 
fireplace. 

I  think  if  I  have  a  favorite  apple  it  is  the  fine  old 
Tulpehocken  (the  Fallawater).  There  used  to  be,  and 
is  still,  a  moss-grown  tree  of  that  variety  in  the  orchard, 
close  to  a  dry  brook-bed;  and  the  great  greenish  balls 
would  fall  and  slowly  roll  down  the  little  slope,  there 
to  hide  away  among  the  weeds.  I  used  to  like  to  pick 
them  out  from  the  hollows  and  burrows  which  they 
had  made  for  themselves  amongst  the  leaves  and 
grasses.    They  were  sweet,  but  not  too  sweet ;  and  they 


246      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

had  enough  of  acid  in  them  to  give  a  rare  delicacy  to 
the  taste.  I  have  hid  many  a  one  away  in  the  hay  to 
give  it  time  to  ripen,  gathering  them  a  little  early, 
perhaps,  to  be  sure  of  them;  and  then  right  royal  was 
the  feast  upon  the  big  mellow  globes.  I  see  the  teeth 
marks  in  them  still;  the  rich  pulp  yields  like  flakes  of 
snow,  and  melts  as  easily;  one  by  one  they  disappear. 
The  old  tree  has  suckers  all  over  it,  and  has  been  neg- 
lected, but  it  still  bears,  in  my  judgment,  the  finest 
apples  in  the  orchard. 

Some  kinds  of  apples,  like  the  Ben  Davis,  have  a 
thick,  leathery  skin,  almost  a  hide,  to  them;  others, 
and  most  of  them,  have  quite  a  thin  skin,  which 
crackles  and  tears  apart  easily  as  we  bite  it  with  our 
teeth.  Some  are  greasy  and  sticky,  like  the  Greenings, 
while  others  are  almost  slippery  to  the  touch. 

I  like  best  the  kind  of  trees  that  were  grafted  low, 
where  the  branches  start  to  spread  not  over  three  feet 
from  the  ground.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  climb  into  such 
trees,  and  the  apples  at  the  ends  of  the  boughs  can  be 
reached  without  great  difficulty  by  single  ladders,  in- 
stead of  necessitating  a  double  ladder,  and  even  then 
towering  above  us,  as  they  frequently  do  in  the  older 
orchards,  nodding  away  in  derision,  far  up  in  the 
clouds.  The  older  the  trees  get,  in  these  orchards  of 
our  forefathers,  the  more  inaccessible  does  the  fruit 
become,  until,  as  the  lower  limbs  decay  and  are  one  by 
one  lopped  off,  the  only  resort  by  which  to  obtain  those 
great  shining  yellow  orbs  yonder  on  the  tips  is  to  make 
use  of  stones  and  clubs.  It  is  said  that  some  of  the 
orchards  until  recently  in  existence  hereabouts  were 
planted  by  the  redoubtable  Johnny  Appleseed,  one  of 


THE  TULPEHOCKEN. 


THE  ORCHARD.  249 

the  most  singular  characters  in  pioneer  history,  who 
roamed  about  through  much  of  Ohio;  and  I  have  had 
such  pointed  out  to  me,  though  I  can  not  verify  their 
identification. 

The  cow  likes  to  eat  the  apples,  and  she  will  keep 
the  branches  all  browsed  off  as  high  as  she  can  reach, 
if  you  put  her  in  the  orchard.  But  give  her  only  sweet 
apples,  as  well  as  those  only  to  horses  also.  I  have 
always  enjoyed  feeding  them  to  the 
animals.  I  have  in  mind  one  orchard 
in  particular,  which  bordered  a  pas- 
ture, across  whose  blue  grass  hil- 
locks the  horses  would  come  at  a 
gallop  when  they  would  see  me 
mount  the  fence  and  eye  the  trees. 
We  used  to  bait  our  twitch-ups  withj 
tempting  pieces  of  apple,  but  the 
squirrels,  I  fear,  preferred  the  hick- 
ory   nuts    that    ripened    about    the 

.  1    1  1        T      1  '^^  CIDER  PRESS. 

same   time,    although    1    have   seen 

them    frisking    and    eating    away    among    the    apple 

boughs. 

Some  apples  make  better  cider  than  others,  but  the 
Crabs  are  the  best.  Still,  I  would  risk  cider  from  al- 
most any  kind  of  apple.  Cider-making  is  one  of  the 
most  thoroughly  enjoyable  events  of  the  year.  What 
glorious  fun  it  is  to  gather  the  great  heaps  of  fruit  in 
the  orchard,  as  we  drive  the  wagon  along  through  the 
alleys  between  the  rows  of  trees,  and  then  to  ride  home 
with  them,  spreading  forth  sweetness  everywhere  as 
we  pass.  Then  comes  the  getting  out  of  the  big  cider 
press,  and  the  dumping  of  the  apples  into  its  feeding- 


250  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

box.  We  begin  to  turn  the  handle ;  we  hear  the  slicing 
of  the  apples  as  they  are  crunched  and  slivered  by  the 
knives;  soon  they  fall  in  myriad  flaky  pieces  into  the 
receiving  crate  below  (a  sort  of  cylindrical  rack,  box, 
crib,  or  hamper,  made  of  strong  oak  strips  bound  with 
iron,  the  ribs  in  the  grating  being  slightly  distanced 
from  one  another  in  a  fine  vertical  open-work  through 
whose  interspaces  the  cider  can  easily  gush  when  forced 
from  the  crushed  fruit)  ;  this  crate  is  removed  as  soon 
as  full  and  placed  under  the  presser,  another  is  substi- 
tuted in  its  place  beneath  the  feeder;  and  the  work 
begins  afresh.  Round  and  round  we  turn  the  screw 
that  gradually  compresses  the  ground  pulp,  until  we 
soon  see  issuing  from  between  the  slats  the  first  sweet 
tricklings.  Lower  and  lower  presses  the  block,  harder 
and  harder  is  the  turning,  until  at  last  we  must  substi- 
tute for  our  hands  a  long  stout  wooden  bar,  one  end 
of  it  to  be  inserted  between  the  iron  spokes  which 
project  upward  from  the  rim  of  the  hand-wheel  on  the 
screwhead,  and  the  other  end,  smoothed  for  the  grasp, 
to  be  pushed  as  a  lever  round  and  round  and  round, 
like  a  handspike  in  the  socket  of  a  capstan.  Out  comes 
the  amber  nectar,  until  the  little  conducting  trough  is 
completely  inundated,  and  then  it  goes  pouring  in  a 
tumultuous,  frothy  overflow  into  the  foaming  pails. 
When  the  last  drop  has  been  squeezed  out,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  force  the  block  down  further  on  the 
cheese,  the  press  is  then  unscrewed;  the  dry,  useless 
pomace  now  left  in  the  crate  is  cast  out  into  a  wheel- 
barrow, and  carted  off  as  refuse,  or  is  soaked  for  a 
time,  and  vinegar  or  jelly  made  from  it;  the  fresh  crate 
under  the  feeder  is  slid  forward  beneath  the  press ;  the 


THE  ORCHARD.  251 

old  empty  hamper  is  put  again  below  the  cutting  box; 
then  away  goes  the  big  rumbling  wheel,  the  screw  is 
twisted  once  more,  and  soon  the  rich  pomade  is  oozing 
and  dripping  from  its  conduits  as  before.  Shall  we 
taste  it?  Who  has  the  first  glassful?  'T  is  the  am- 
brosia of  the  autumn. 

I  have  been  at  cider-mills  where  the  process  was 
carried  on  by  machinery  on  a  much  larger  scale.  There 
were  tons  of  apples  awaiting  their  demise,  and  wagon 
loads  more  of  them  coming;  the  constant  hum  of  ma- 
chfinery  was  heard;  the  cider  came  running  out  of  a 
spout  in  a  perpetual  stream  into  barrels;  while  back  of 
the  shed  arose  a  mountain  of  the  crushed  and  withered 
pomace — "apple  chankin's,"  as  they  sometimes  call 
them.  In  a  little  shanty  in  the  rear  of  one  of  these 
mills  that  I  used  to  enjoy  visiting,  came  slowly  drop- 
ping, bead  by  bead,  the  distilled  essence  of  it  all,  genu- 
ine, transparent,  sparkling  af.ple  brandy.  Harmless, 
this?     Try  it,  sir! 

There  is  an  old  refrain,  which  I  am  sure  most  of  us 
must  have  heard,  with  these  familiar  lines  to  it: 

"  The  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw 

Was  sucking  cider  through  a  straw." 

It  is  a  familiar  picture,  and  I  think  I  shall  let  it  pass 
without  further  comment. 

In  Josiah  Gilbert  Holland's  "Bitter-Sweet"  is  a 
stanza  about  the  cider  barrels  which  is  here  worth  re- 
peating: 

' '  Sixteen  barrels  of  cider 
Ripening  all  in  a  row  ! 
Open  the  vent-channels  wider  ! 
See  the  froth,  drifted  like  snow,  *• 

Blown  by  the  tempest  below  ! 


252  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Those  delectable  juices 

Flowed  through  the  sinuous  sluices 

Of  sweet  springs  under  the  orchard  ; 

Climbed  into  fountains  that  chained  them  ; 

Dripped  into  cups  that  retained  them, 

And  swelled  till  they  dropped,  and  we  gained  them. 

Then  they  were  gathered  and  tortured 

By  passage  from  hopper  to  vat, 

And  fell — every  apple  crushed  flat. 

Ah  !  how  the  bees  gathered  round  them, 

And  how  delicious  they  found  them  1 

In  went  the  pulp  by  the  scoop-full. 

Till  the  juice  flowed  by  the  stoup-full, — 

Filling  the  half  of  a  puncheon 

While  the  men  swallowed  their  luncheon. 

Pure  grew  the  stream  with  the  stress 

Of  the  lever  and  screw, 

Till  the  last  drops  from  the  press 

Were  as  bright  as  the  dew." 

There  is  but  one  long  poem  that  I  know  of  whose 
subject  is  wholly  the  poetry  of  cider-making;  namely, 
"Cyder,"  by  John  Philips,  far  back  there  in  the  early 
eighteenth  century — entirely  unread  nowadays,  and  yet 
standing,  in  the  midst  of  those  artificial,  conv^entional, 
unnatural  days,  as  a  protest,  and,  even  in  its  didactic, 
classical  style,  expressing  an  appreciation  of  country 
life.  Keats,  in  his  ode  "To  Autumn,"  in  his  imagina- 
tion sees,  as  the  crowning  image,  the  spirit  of  the  fall 
of  the  year  seated  beside  a  cider-press,  as  if  this  were 
the  most  natural,  the  most  satisfactory,  and  the  most 
representative  picture  he  could  give  of  the  season: 

"  Or  by  a  cyder-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours." 

Fresh  cider,  as  it  comes  straight  from  the  press, 
is  indeed  sweet  and  delicious.  Yet  to  most  people  this 
wine  from  the  apples  tastes  best  after  it  has  stood  for 


THE  ORCHARD.  253 

a  while  and  has  fermented  a  little.  It  has  then  a 
tang  and  a  sting  to  the  tongue  which  add  a  delightful 
snap  to  it,  and  we  drink  it  to  the  lees.  Hard  cider,  of 
course,  is  as  intoxicating  as  any  other  liquor  much  fer- 
mented. It  is  one  of  the  enjoyments  about  the  old 
fireplace  to  mull  the  cider — namely,  to  make  a  poker 
red  hot,  and  then  to  plunge  it  in  a  jug,  or  pitcher,  of 
the  liquid.  This  causes  it  to  sizzle  mildly,  and  gives 
it  a  rich,  burnt  taste;  and,  when  doughnuts  are  eaten 
with  the  cider,  it  is  a  fine  treat.  It  goes  along  with 
nuts  for  the  winter  evenings.  Our  great-grandfathers, 
indeed,  would  have  nothing  of  a  common  poker,  but 
used,  instead,  a  regular  mulling  iron  and  a  flip  glass 
for  it.  The  iron  was  like  a  poker,  but  with  the  lower 
end  greatly  enlarged,  and  hexagonal  or  round  in  shape; 
and  the  flip  glass,  or  mug,  was  very  ornamental,  and, 
tapering  toward  the  bottom,  flared  out  widely  at  the 
top,  so  as  to  receive  the  iron.  The  glass  was  warmed 
before  the  fire,  and  the  mulling  iron  was  heated  in  the 
embers;  and  a  pretty,  old-time  picture  it  was,  with  the 
large,  capacious  glasses  in  rows  before  the  hearth. 

There  is  always  something  to  do  in  the  orchard. 
The  weeds  and  briers  must  be  tended  to,  and  the  poison 
ivy  must  be  killed  that  so  frequently  makes  its  home 
among  our  apple-trees.  We  can  hang  our  scythe  con- 
veniently in  some  of  the  gnarled  and  crinkled  crotches. 
In  the  fall  and  spring  there  is  plenty  of  work  in  taking 
care  of  the  trees,  cutting  off  the  suckers,  checking  the 
growth  where  it  has  been  too  rapid,  and  generally  thin- 
ning out  the  dying  and  superfluous  branches;  and  these 
old  dead  limbs,  when  lopped  off,  make  the  best  of  fire- 
wood.    Sound  apple-wood,  too,  is  very  beautiful  when 


254      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

polished,  and  highly  prized.  Ox  yokes  were  sometimes 
made  from  the  limbs.  There  is  something  very  de- 
lightful in  pruning.  It  is  not  hard  labor,  and  It  is 
always  Interesting  to  see  the  shape  of  a  tree  improve 
by  our  own  trimming.  In  the  spring  we  shall  watch 
with  solicitude  to  see  whether  the  prospects  for  fruit 
are  the  better  for  it.  Yes,  we  think  the  trees  will  blow 
well,  so  much  was  taken  off  that  was  useless;  and,  when 
at  last  almost  every  twig  is  pink,  and  the  season  turns 
out  a  good  one,  and  the  ripening  spheres  in  autumn 
rouse  our  just  pride,  we  say  it  pays  to  take  care  of  the 
orchard.  It  Is  quite  an  art  to  dress  trees  well;  for 
each  variety  has  its  own  preferences  of  shape  and  ways 
of  growing,  and  these  must  be  studied  in  order  to  clean 
the  tree  to  advantage,  and  so  to  produce  the  best  crop. 
Yet  every  one  can  learn  it,  and  it  is  a  pleasure  to  do 
so.  Nature  will  not  take  care  of  them  very  well  for 
us.  She  expects  aid  at  our  hands,  with  our  shears  and 
knives  and  saws;  and,  unless  we  give  it,  she  will  forth- 
with cause  such  sprouts  and  tanglegrowth  to  spring  up 
that  it  will  be  impossible  for  us  to  make  much  head- 
way unless  we  clear  them  aside;  and  then,  even  after 
that.  If  we  do  not,  she  will  either  abandon  the  race 
and  the  tree  will  die,  or  she  will  bring  a  new  tree  from 
the  old. 

Apples  attain  to  their  best  color  when  the  orchard 
is  on  a  hillside  with  a  northern  exposure.  Then  they 
paint  themselves  with  the  most  delicate  tints  and  the 
most  gorgeous  hues  that  the  brush  of  autumn  can 
splash  upon  them.  Stained  with  their  native  yellow, 
they  are  yet  often  striped  with  some  of  the  many  vari- 
ations of  red,  or  even  dashed  with  a  shade  of  purple. 


"  We  Can  Hang  Our  Scythe  Conveniently  in  Some  of  the  Gnarled  and 
w  Crinkled  Crotches." 


THE  ORCHARD.  257 

I  have  noticed  that  those  color  best  that  have  a  full 
exposure  to  the  sun.  The  fruit  that  is  concealed  too 
densely  beneath  the  branches  does  not  seem  to  have 
quite  the  vigor;  the  cheeks  lack  the  glow  of  that  which 
strings  the  outside  twigs.  It  is  said  of  the  apples  raised 
mainly  by  means  of  irrigation  that  they  are  tasteless, 
and  lack  the  tang  of  ours  that  mature  by  a  natural 
rainfall, 

I  like  to  cut  into  them,  and  to  see  what  we  used  to 
call  the  "blossom"  still  evident  in  the  lines  and  interior 
markings.  Some  apples  are  actually  pink  inside;  some 
are  a  snowy  white;  others  are  the  more  usual  yellow, 
or  cream  color,  like  the  Russet.  There  Is  much  differ- 
ence, too,  in  the  quality  of  the  pulp,  as  well  as  of  the 
skin.  Some  are  almost  brittle  to  the  teeth,  and  snap  off 
in  flakes;  some  are  soft  and  firm;  still  others  are  almost 
mushy  when  ripe.  Some  have  tough,  big  cores;  some 
have  practically  no  cores  at  all.  Some  are  racy,  some 
insipid.  Some  are  always  small  in  size,  while  others 
will  sometimes  weigh  a  pound. 

What  a  sweet  smell  comes  from  the  bins  of  apples 
in  the  cellar,  the  blending  of  many  odors,  as  we  open 
the  door  to  descend!  Many  a  basketful  is  eaten  by 
the  firelight,  with  nuts  and  cake ;  and  many  a  fine  dish 
of  fruit  for  dessert  is  formed  during  the  autumn 
months  of  apples,  and  pears,  and  grapes  from  the  vine- 
yard. Apple  pies,  of  every  description,  are  a  staple 
part  of  the  pantry  of  every  well-ordered  household; 
apple  sauce  is  a  daily  relish  in  its  season;  and  the  rich 
apple  butter  reminds  us  of  the  year  that  has  gone  all 
through  the  long  winter. 

There  Is  no  fruit  so  generally  useful  as  the  apple, 


258  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

or  that  can  be  served  up  in  so  many  ways.  It  is  the 
mainstay  of  fruits,  as  if  to  atone  for  its  traditional 
tempting  quahties  in  the  Garden.  Having  once  un- 
fortunately been  the  apple  of  discord,  it  has  proved 
itself  at  last  in  truth  to  be  golden,  equal  indeed  to  the 
apples  of  Hesperides.  And  so  we  keep  it  as  the  apple 
of  our  eye.  The  tree  itself  is  the  most  graceful  of  all 
the  fruit-trees.  Other  kinds  of  fruit,  such  as  peaches, 
may  be  more  pleasing  at  the  time,  but  none  stands  the 
test  so  well  throughout  the  year. 

In  early  times  they  used  to  bury  apples  for  the 
winter,  and,  when  finally  taken  out,  they  had  a  peculiar 
earthy  taste  which  was  not  unpleasant.  None  of  the 
cold  storage  apples  are  so  good,  and  yet  none  even  of 
those  stored  in  bins  or  buried  are  so  sweet  as  those 
fresh  from  the  trees. 

Dried  apples  are  also  quite  an  accessory  to  the 
farm.  In  the  old  days  nearly  every  farm  had  its  shed, 
with  its  roof  covered  with  split  apples  drying  in  the 
sun.  They  get  calloused  by  this  method,  a  sort  of  hard 
skin  forming  over  them,  which  keeps  the  moisture  in. 
For  this  purpose  they  used  to  have  "apple  cuttings," 
or  "apple  bees,"  at  which  the  neighbors  would  come 
on  an  evening,  and  the  gathering  would  then  divide 
into  two  parties,  each  with  an  equal  number  of  persons 
and  a  similar  amount  of  apples,  and  then  go  it  they 
would  to  see  which  would  pare  and  slice  the  most. 
These  would  be  strung  sometimes  on  long  threads,  or 
strings,  like  onion  tops,  and  then  hung  in  great  festoons 
about  the  walls.  They  do  very  well  in  winter-time, 
but  these  dried  apples  are  not  so  good  to  eat,  as  such, 
as  are  dried  peaches;  they  must  be  cooked  into  some 


THE  ORCHARD.  259 

sort  of  pie,  or  prepared  in  other  ways,  before  they  are 
palatable.  An  "apple  bee"  was  different  from  a  "corn 
husking,"  in  that  the  women  could  more  generally  take 
part;  but  it  was  like  one  in  that  it  usually  wound  up 
with  a  dance  or  the  Virginia  reel.  It  was  always  seen 
to  it  that  a  fiddler  was  among  those  asked  to  attend. 
"Bobbing"  for  apples  in  a  tub  of  water  was  a  sport 
for  Hallowe'en. 

The  orchard  is  a  great  place  for  the  birds  in  the 
spring.  I  see  little  gleams  of  yellow,  and  blue,  and 
red,  with  glimpses  of  the  more  somber  brown,  dart 
from  tree  to  tree  and  flit  among  the  branches.  It  seems 
to  be  the  favorite  home  of  the  yellow-breasted  chat, 
as  he  talks  away  at  us  or  cooes  and  warbles  from  among 
his  leafy  coverts.  The  robin  also  homesteads  among 
its  crotches.  The  bluebird  makes  her  nest  in  a  hollow 
limb;  or  enters  by  some  knot-hole  into  the  dim  fast- 
nesses of  the  trunk,  and  there  rears  her  young.  Orioles 
hang  their  abodes  from  the  tips  of  the  branches.  The 
little  chickadees  peep  about  in  their  endless  search 
up  and  down  the  bark  and  about  the  sprays.  Wood- 
peckers tap  th&  trees  with  their  bills,  and  some  old 
orchards  are  literally  riddled  and  tattooed  from  head 
to  foot  with  the  bullet-like  perforations  of  their  drill- 
ing. Perhaps  a  dove  will  construct  her  simple  dwell- 
ing on  a  bough,  and  we  shall  hear  the  mournful  gurgle 
of  her  mate  while  they  select  their  site.  From  every- 
where, from  every  tree,  and  oftentimes  apparently  from 
nearly  every  bough,  comes  the  tireless  and  incessant 
love-fluting  of  the  birds.  And  not  only  while  mating, 
but  also  during  nesting  time,  while  the  female  sits  on 
the  nest,  does  that  speckled  beauty,  the  wood  thrush, 


26o  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

yodel  away  his  bursts  of  song  in  the  dying  day.  A 
poetic  way,  this,  of  nesting  in  the  orchard.  The  first 
brood,  perchance,  is  hatched  while  blossoms  still  whiten 
the  boughs  or  the  ground  is  strewn  with  petals,  and  the 
last  is  reared  amongst  the  golden  globes. 

Wilson  Flagg  once  'made  an  interesting  study  of 
the  "Birds  of  the  Garden  and  Orchard,"  enumerating 
quite  a  coterie  so  inclined;  and  it  was  in  the  course  of 
that  series  of  sketches  that  he  inserted  his  really  in- 
imitable poem,  "The  O'Lincoln  Family,"  on  the  bobo- 
link. Flagg  also  continued  his  bird  papers  in  a  further 
and  no  less  interesting  series,  upon  the  "Birds  of  the 
Pasture  and  Forest,"  "Birds  of  the  Night,"  and  others. 

Sheep  like  to  graze  in  an  orchard  upon  the  orchard 
grass,  or  the  blue  grass,  or  red  top,  or  the  many  weeds 
which  they  think  are  so  succulent.  It  is  a  good  way 
to  keep  the  orchard  clean  and  free  from  weeds  and 
briers,  to  have  a  small  flock  of  sheep  running  in  it. 
They  form  a  pleasing  picture  as  they  placidly  and  con- 
tentedly chew  their  cud  beneath  the  apple-trees. 

Butterflies,  some  large  and  some  small,  flutter  about 
and  light  on  the  apples  that  lie  on  the  ground;  bees 
buzz  among  them,  and  extract  the  nectar  of  the  bruised 
and  fallen  fruit;  insects  quickly  crawl  over  them,  and 
taste  their  sweetness.  I  like  to  lie  upon  the  grass 
beneath  these  trees,  even  if  for  no  other  purpose  than 
simply  to  look  up  at  the  leaves  and  the  fruit.  It  was 
in  an  orchard  that  Sir  Isaac  Newton  discovered  the 
law  of  gravitation,  as  he  heard  the  perpetual  thuds  of 
the  great  round  things  as  they  fell  to  earth.  Richard 
Jefiferies  wrote  his  immortal  "Pageant  of  Summer"  be- 
neath an  apple-tree. 


THE  ORCHARD.  26 1 

But  the  orchard  may  stand  for  a  group,  or  a  set- 
ting, of  fruit-trees  other  than  apples.  There  are  sev- 
eral other  orchards  about  the  homestead.  The  cherries 
ripen  the  earliest,  with  their  round  crimson  fruit.  Then 
come  the  apricots  and  peaches,  all  covered  with  down; 
next  the  plums,  great  long  ropes  of  them  dangling 
there,  with  the  hogs  roaming  and  rooting  around  be- 
neath them  for  those  that  fall;  along  with  the  plums 
come  the  pears  and  apples;  and,  lastly,  the  fuzzy, 
lemon-colored  quinces.  What  a  variety  there  is  in  these 
fruits — sweet  and  sour  cherries ;  white  and  yellow,  early 
and  late,  freestone  and  clingstone  peaches;  the  blue, 
green,  red,  and  yellow  plums,  almost  like  tropical  fruits 
in  their  nature;  and  all  the  different  kinds  of  pears — 
the  juicy  Clapp's  Favorite,  the  winy  Flemish  Beauty, 
the  sugary  Seckel,  the  luscious  Bartlett,  and  the  others. 
Now  all  these  belong  to  the  order  Rosacea,  and  yet 
what  a  vast  difference  in  the  quality  and  nature  of  the 
fruit.  But  there  they  are,  pomes  or  drupes  or  what- 
ever you  wish  to  call  them,  each  ripening  for  us  in  its 
season  amongst  the  twigs  and  leaves. 

Mr.  John  Burroughs  has  written  a  paper  upon 
"The  Apple,"  which  is  everywhere  redolent  of  the  bin 
and  the  orchard.  I  shall  give  you  the  pleasure  of  these 
few  sentences  from  it: 

"Noble,  common  fruit,  best  friend  of  man  and  most  loved 
by  him,  following  him,  like  his  dog  or  his  cow,  wherever  he 
goes!  His  homestead  is  not  planted  till  you  are  planted,  your 
roots  intertwine  with  his;  thriving  best  where  he  thrives  best, 
loving  the  limestone  and  the  frost,  the  plow  and  the  pruning- 
knife;  you  are  indeed  suggestive  of  hardy,  cheerful  industry, 
and  a  healthy  life  in  the  open  air." 


262      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Mr.  Burroughs  thinks  It  a  sure  sign  of  age  when 
a  man  no  longer  cares  for  apples,  and  In  another  of 
his  papers  says  that  his  old  hollow  apple-tree,  unlike 
most  persons,  always  wears  "a  girdle  of  perpetual 
youth"  In  the  new  green  ring  which  annually  surrounds 
Its  trunk. 

Bryant  has  a  poem  entitled  "The  Planting  of  the 
Apple-Tree,"  this  stanza  of  which  Is  especially  sug- 
gestive : 

"  What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 
And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky. 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree." 

In  Holland's  "Bitter-Sweet,"  again.  Is  another  fine 
description  of  the  varieties  of  apples  in  the  bins  near 
the  barrels  of  cider  in  the  cellar,  as  follows: 

"  That  is  a  barrel  of  russets  ; 
But  we  can  hardly  discuss  its 

Spheres  of  frost  and  flint, 
Till,  smitten  by  thoughts  of  spring, 
And  the  old  tree  blossoming, 

Their  bronze  takes  a  yellower  tint. 

And  the  pulp  grows  mellower  in  't. 
But  oh  !  when  they  're  sick  w  ith  the  savors 

Of  sweets  that  they  dream  of. 
Sure,  all  the  toothsomest  flavors 

They  hold  the  cream  of ! 

"  Those  are  the  Rhode  Island  greenings  ; 
Excellent  apples  for  pies  : 


THE  ORCHARD.  263 

There  are  the  Baldwins  and  Flyers, 
Wrapped  in  their  beautiful  hres  ! 
Color  forks  up  from  their  stems 

As  if  painted  by  Flora, 
Or  as  out  from  the  pole  stream  the  flames 

Of  the  northern  Aurora. 

"  Here  shall  our  quest  have  a  close : 
Fill  up  your  basket  with  those  ; 
Bite  through  their  vesture  of  flame, 

And  then  you  will  gather 
All  that  is  meant  by  the  name, 

'Seek-no-farther.'" 

But  perhaps  Thoreau's  essay  upon  "Wild  Apples" 
is  the  best  known,  as  it  is  also  the  raciest  in  its  style 
and  appreciation.  How  he  enjoyed  them !  Let  him 
tell  his  own  story  of  his  gleaning,  in  a  passage  justly 
famous  as  perhaps  the  classic  in  the  literature  of  the 
apple : 

"I  know  a  Blue-Pearmain  tree,  growing  within  the  edge  of 
a  swamp,  almost  as  good  as  wild.  You  would  not  suppose 
there  was  any  fruit  left  there,  on  the  first  survey,  but  you  must 
look  according  to  system.  Those  which  lie  exposed  are  quite 
brown  and  rotten  now,  or  perchance  a  few  still  show  one  bloom- 
ing cheek  here  and  there  amid  the  wet  leaves.  Nevertheless, 
with  experienced  eyes,  I  explore  amid  the  bare  alders  and  the 
huckleberry-bushes  and  the  withered  sedge,  and  in  the  crevices 
of  the  rocks,  which  are  full  of  leaves,  and  pr\'  under  the  fallen 
and  decaying  ferns,  which,  with  apple  and  alder  leaves,  thickly 
strew  the  ground.  For  I  know  that  they  lie  concealed,  fallen 
into  hollows  long  since  and  covered  up  by  the  leaves  of  the 
tree  itself, — a  proper  kind  of  packing.  From  these  lurking 
places,  anywhere  within  the  circumference  of  the  tree,  I  draw 
forth  the  fruit,  all  wet  and  glossy,  maybe  nibbled  by  rabbits 
and  hollowed  out  by  crickets,  and  perhaps  with  a  leaf  or  two 


264  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

cemented  to  it  (as  Curzon  an  old  manuscript  from  a  mon- 
astery's moldy  cellar),  but  still  with  a  rich  bloom  on  it,  and 
at  least  as  ripe  and  well  kept,  if  not  better  than  those  in  barrels, 
more  crisp  and  lively  than  they.  If  these  resources  fail  to  yield 
anything,  I  have  learned  to  look  between  the  bases  of  the 
suckers  which  spring  thickly  from  some  horizontal  limb,  for 
now  and  then  one  lodges  there,  or  in  the  very  midst  of  an  alder- 
clump,  where  they  are  covered  by  leaves,  safe  from  cows  which 
may  have  smelled  them  out.  If  I  am  sharp-set,  for  I  do  not 
refuse  the  Blue-Pearmain,  I  fill  my  pockets  on  each  side;  and 
as  I  retrace  my  steps  in  the  frosty  eve,  being  perhaps  four  or 
five  miles  from  home,  I  eat  one  first  from  this  side,  and  then 
from  that,  to  keep  my  balance." 

And  with  his  words  I  close  my  paper,  hoping  that 
we  shall  all  see  our  bins  and  barrels  full  for  the  winter. 


A    BOUGH   OF   APPLES. 


HARVEST. 

"  Flinsr  wide  the  Ki^in ;  we  give  the  fields 

The  ears  that  nod  in  summer's  gale. 
The  shining  stems  that  summer  gilds. 

The  harvest  that  o'erflows  the  vale. 
And  SNvells,  an  amber  sea,  between 
The  full-leaved  woods,  its  shores  of  green. 
Hark!  from  the  murmuring  clods  I  hear 
Glad  voices  of  the  coming  year ; 
The  song  of  him  who  binds  the  grain. 
The  shout  of  those  that  load  the  wain. 
And  from  the  distant  grange  there  comes 

The  clatter  of  the  thresher's  flail. 
And  steadily  the  millstone  hums 

Down  in  the  willowy  vale." 

—Bryant. 

HE  term  harvest,  as  it  is  generally  under- 
stood in  the  country,  is  limited  to  the 
time  when  the  ripened  grain  is  cut  and  gar- 
nered into  the  barns.  Yet  the  real  harvest  lasts 
longer  than  that.  The  berry  season  and  haying 
SICKLES.  immediately  precede  and  often  accompany  the 
reaping  of  the  grain,  and  we  are  surely  still  getting  in 
our  crops  when  we  pick  the  last  apple  of  October. 
Are  not  these,  then,  also  a  part  of  the  harvest? 
Indeed,  all  summer  and  autumn,  even  till  the  last  stalk 
of  corn  is  cut  and  the  rustling  shocks  lie  scattered  in 
corn  husking  in  November,  are  but  the  gathering  in 
of  the  products  from  the  seeds  of  the  previous  fall 
and  the  blossoms  of  the  spring. 

Let  us  turn  to  the  hayfield  while  the  men  are  there. 
It  is  no  wonder  the  cows  love  clover.    See  it  turn  over, 

26S 


266      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

with  its  pink  blossoms,  as  the  mower  cuts  It!  Aye, 
't  were  better  could  we  but  see  more  of  it.  There  are 
some  fine  lines  in  one  of  Joaquin  Miller's  poems,  "The 
Arizonian :" 

"And  I  have  said,  and  I  say  it  ever, 
As  the  years  go  on  and  the  world  goes  over, 
'T  were  better  to  be  content  and  clever. 
In  the  tending  of  cattle  and  the  tossing  of  clover, 
In  the  grazing  of  cattle  and  growing  of  grain. 
Than  a  strong  man  striving  for  fame  or  gain, 
Be  even  as  kine  in  the  red-tipped  clover; 


Be  even  as  clover  with  its  crown  of  blossoms, 
Even  as  blossoms  ere  the  bloom  is  shed, 
Kiss'd  by  the  kine  and  the  brown  sweet  bee." 

Whittier  felt  the  poetry  of  hay-making.  His 
"Maud  Muller"  is  probably  the  best  known  poem  on 
the  subject,  and  is  familiar  to  everybody.  It  is  not  an 
uncommon  picture;  yet  would  it  were  even  more  com- 
mon, and  that  sunbonnets  and  torn  hats  were  not  going 
out  of  fashion : 

"Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

"Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health." 

But  haying  is  hard  work,  and  the  men  benefit  by 
it  only  indirectly.  Hay  is  for  horses  and  stock.  Yet 
the  men  work  the  hardest  in  the  fields,  while  the  horses 
merely  draw  the  loads,  and  wait  while  the  men  pitch 
on  the  hay  or  unload  it  into  the  mow.  It  is  a  case, 
in  this  instance,  of  the  servant  being  greater  than  his 
master;  but  the  master  generally  manages  to  make  up 


z 

H 
n: 
w 

X 

> 
o 


HARVEST.  269 

for  it,  and  gets  even  in  the  plowing  season.  Some- 
times hay-making  becomes  a  great  frolic,  and  the  chil- 
dren climb  on  the  loads,  and  happy  are  the  long  rides 
from  the  field  while  they  nestle  among  the  fragrant 
grasses.  I  have  even  seen  a  fiddle  go  to  the  field  with 
the  jug,  when  the  meadows  were  far  distant  from  the 
farmhouse;  and  the  laborers  would  then  stay  out  for 
some  days,  until  all  was  cut  and  stacked. 

Whitman  has  left  a  realistic  picture  of  the  return 
of  the  load  to  the  barn: 

"The  big  doors  of  the  country  barn  stand  open  and  ready, 
The  dried  grass  of  the  harvest-time  loads  the  slow-drawn  wagon, 
The  clear  light  plays  on  the  brown  gray  and  green  intertinged, 
The  armfuls  are  packed  to  the  sagging  mow. 

"I  am  there,  I  help,  I  came  stretch'd  atop  of  the  load, 
I  felt  its  soft  jolts,  one  leg  reclined  on  the  other, 
I  jump  from  the  cross-beams  and  seize  the  clover  and  timothy, 
And  roll  head  over  heels  and  tangle  my  hair  full  of  wisps." 

You  must  be  careful  not  to  get  mixed  up  in  a 
bumble-bees'  nest  in  the  field.  They  are  very  irascible 
customers.  And  yet  I  knew  of  no  better  fun  as  a  boy 
than  to  stir  up  a  nest,  and,  armed  with  leafy  branches 
or  a  bunch  of  weeds,  to  fight  my  way  right  among  them, 
and  finally,  after  the  massacre,  secure  the  little  egg- 
shaped  globules,  of  cocoon-like  covering,  that  contained 
the  honey.  Bumble-bee  honey  is  stronger  than  the 
honey-bee's,  but  it  has  a  sort  of  wild  taste,  and  serves 
very  well  to  vary  the  monotony  in  the  haying  season. 
The  big  yellow-banded  fellows — regular  ogres,  so  cross 
are  they — seem  to  choose  a  clover  field  above  all  others 
for  their  domicile.  If  they  sting  the  horses,  you  will 
have  a  time  of  it,  and  may  get  the  harness  all  broken 


270      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

and  tangled  before  you  get  through,  and  perhaps  the 
mowing  machine  itself  will  get  into  bad  order. 

Sometimes  a  turtle  or  two  will  be  found  amongst 
the  clover,  or  a  snake  is  cut  to  pieces  in  the  hayfield. 
I  know  of  a  man  who  cut  off  the  heads  of  two  big 
black  snakes  in  a  small  field,  unintentionally,  with  the 
knife  of  his  mower.  They  were  lying  coiled  in  the 
clover,  with  their  heads  raised  a  little,  and  the  Jugger- 
naut came  along  and  slivered  them.  Sometimes  a  dog 
will  come  too  close,  as  he  bounds  about  after  a  rabbit, 
and  perhaps  he  will  be  badly  mangled,  and  may  have 
to  be  killed. 

It  is  quite  a  trick  to  know  how  to  pitch  hay,  and 
to  gather  all  into  one  bunch  clean  with  a  fork,  without 
the  necessity  of  a  hand-rake  following;  and  it  is  an 
ev^en  greater  trick  to  load  the  hay  properly,  so  that  it 
will  not  slide  off  on  side-hills;  and  a  still  greater  one  to 
form  and  top  off  a  stack.  Mowing  away  is  not  such 
an  art,  nor  is  the  boys'  job  of  treading  the  hay  down — 
but  ah !  brethren,  many  a  drop  of  genuine  sweat  has 
glistened  in  the  hayfield  and  the  loft.  If  there  is  a 
time  when  a  man  can  enjoy  a  refreshing  drink  from 
the  bucket  at  the  well,  it  is  after  pitching  off  a  load  of 
hay.     So,  sings  Woodworth,  in  the  well-known  lines: 

"That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hailed  as  a  treasure; 
For  often  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure — 
The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
Kow  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 
And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell! 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing. 
And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well." 


> 

H 
w 

H 
X 
w 

s 


HARVEST.  273 

And  if  there  is  a  time  when  a  man  can  relish  a  bath, 
or,  better  still,  a  plunge  in  a  pond  or  a  brook,  it  is  in 
the  twilight  after  a  day's  work  with  timothy  or  clover, 
when  the  seeds  have  simply  tattooed  him  from  head 
to  foot  in  innumerable,  speckled,  itching  spots  of  red. 
We  see  wisps  of  hay  hanging  from  the  gateposts 
where  the  wagons  have  passed  through,  and  strands 
cast  along  the  roadside  and  in  the  barnyard.  Out  on 
the  hillside,  in  the  orchard,  they  are  still  cutting. 
There  will  be  a  good  load  or  two  more  of  it.  The 
sweet  scent  of  new-mown  hay  is  wafted  to  us  as  we  lie 
in  the  shade.  We  can  see  the  mowers  bending  and 
swaying  at  their  work.  At  times  one  will  rest,  and 
then  the  musical  whetting  of  his  scythe  soon  reaches 
our  ears.  Let  us  go  down  among  them.  The  erect 
grasses,  with  their  slender  stems  and  nodding  tops,  fall 
one  by  one  before  the  steady  slash  of  the  blade,  and 
at  each  stroke  are  bunched  by  the  mower  with  the  heel 
of  his  scythe  and  laid  in  a  windrow  along  the  swath. 
Perhaps,  later  on,  these  same  long  lines  of  damp  green 
grass  will  be  tossed  and  scattered  to  dry  in  the  wind 
and  the  sun,  and  then  afterwards  raked  together  again 
or  forked  into  haycocks  to  shed  the  rain.  There  are 
few  more  interesting  things  to  watch  or  to  do  on  a 
farm  than  the  cutting  of  grass  with  a  scythe. 

"O  sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares, 
The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew," 

sings  Tennyson. 

Mr.  Andrew  Lang's  "Scythe  Song"  gives  such  a 
lovely  picture  of  the  mowers,  and  so  perfectly  repro- 


274 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


duces  the  sound  of  the  scythe,  and  interprets  It  so  well, 
that  I  shall  here  transcribe  it : 

"Mowers,  weary  and  brown,  and  blithe, 

What  is  the  word'  methinks  ye  know. 
Endless  over-word  that  the  Scythe 

Sings  to  the  blades  of  the  grass  below? 
Scythes  that  swing  in  the  grass  and  clover, 

Something,  still,  they  say  as  they  pass; 
What  is  the  word  that,  over  and  over. 

Sings  the  Scythe  to  the  flowers  and  grass  ? 

"Hush,  ah  hush,  the  Scythes  are  saying. 

Hush,  and  heed  not;  and  fall  asleep; 
Hush,  they  say  to  the  grasses  swaying, 

Hush,  they  sing  to  the  clover  deep ! 
Hush, — 't  is  the  lullaby  Time  is  singing — 

Hush,  and  heed  not,  for  all  things  pass. 
Hush,  ah  hush!  and  the  Scythes  are  swinging 

Over  the  clover,  over  the  grass !" 

No  part  of  the  year  is  more 
poetic  in  the  whole  round  of 
farming  than  haying  and  grain 
harvest.  The  farm  that  does 
not  have  its  grassy  meadows 
and  fields  of  wheat,  with  all 
the  life  and  scenes  of  the  har- 
vest-time, is  no  farm  at  all. 
The  harvest  is  the  most  pic- 
turesque work  of  the  year,  as 
well  as  the  most  romantic. 
Sugar-making  alone  can  ap- 
proach it.  It  is  the  delight 
of  memory  to  recall  the  din- 
ners brought  out  in  pails  to 

5ROWN  JUG,  DO  n't  I  LOVE  ,         r     i   i  i  l     i     •      i      r 

THEE  •"  the  nelds,  the  cool  drmk  rrom 


HARVEST. 


275 


the  jug,  and  the  hours  spent  in  lying  among  the 
sheaves  at  rest.  There  is  more  poetry  in  the  old- 
fashioned  ways,  in  the  rasp  of  the  sweeping  cradle, 
the  sheaves  bound  together  with  handfuls  of  the  same 
wheat  straw,  the  curved  hand  sickle  hook,  the  swish 
and  delicate  tang  of  the  scythe  as  it  slips  through  the 
tall  grass. 

That  is  a  pleasant  glimpse  of  old-time  custom  which 


CRADLING  WHEAT, 


Alice  Cary  has  left  to  us,  in  her  poem  entitled  "Harvest 
Time,"  in  this  opening  stanza: 

"God's  blessing  on  the  reapers!  all  day  long 

A  quiet  sense  of  peace  my  spirit  fills, 
As  whistled  fragments  of  untutored  song 

Blend  with  the  rush  of  sickles  on  the  hills: 
And  the  blue  wild-flowers  and  green  briar-leaves 
Are  brightly  tangled  with  the  yellow  sheaves." 


276 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


Modern  improvements,  however,  have  not  greatly 
lessened  the  picturesque  sides  of  country  life,  and  they 
have  vastly  diminshed  the  hard  labor.  It  is  almost  as 
enjoyable  to  see  the  mower  seated  on  a  machine  drawn 

by  horses  as  to  watch  him 
swinging  the  scythe,  and  the 
blades  of  grass  fall  more 
rapidly  than  in  the  older 
way.  Indeed,  not  only  is 
the  clover  practically  all  cut 
by  machinery  nowadays,  ex- 
cept in  the  few  inaccessible 
spots  where  the  scythe  is 
needed  or  where  the  stems 
are  badly  matted  down,  but 
it  is  also  generally  all  raked 
together  with  the  aid  of 
horses  and  a  horse-rake, 
while  the  hand-rake  hangs 
unused  in  the  barn.  I  have 
even  worked  in  the  fields 
where  almost  all  pitching 
was  obviated,  and  the  stack- 
ing done  with  a  great  toothed  bucking  beam  pulled 
by  two  horses  at  each  end  along  the  windrows ;  and, 
again,  where  the  hay  itself  was  all  mechanically  brought 
up  from  the  windrows  on  the  carrier  of  a  combined 
rake  and  loader,  attached  to  and  trailing  after  the 
wagon,  and  then  spread  out  upon  slings  on  the  rig- 
ging, thence  afterwards  to  be  hoisted  in  enormous 
flaky  masses  to  the  stack  by  a  block-and-tackle  and  a 
derrick. 


THE  OLD-TIME    WAY. 


HARVEST. 


277 


In  fields,  too,  where  formerly  the  harvesting  was 
all  done  by  hand  with  the  old-time  notched  and  serrated 
sickles,  or  reaping  hooks,  requiring  a  dozen  men  or 
over  for  a  single  field  and  necessitating  endless  hours, 
one  can  hear  to-day  the  click-click-click  of  the  modern 
knives  in  their  cutter-bar  as  the  horses  draw  the  reaper, 
and  can  see  the  arms  of  a  self- 
binder  turning  over  and  over 
and  waving  above  the  sea  of 
wheat,  gathering  in  the  golden 
spears.  Out  on  the  stubble  one 
by  one  fall  the  bundles,  sheaves 
already  tied  up  with  good  strong 
twine,  a  much  more  easy  way  of 
doing  it  than  the  old  method  of 
the  cradle,  a  rake,  a  gavel,  and 
a  wisp  of  straw. 

And  then  comes  the  shock- 
ing of  the  grain,  either  in  long  or 
round  shocks  as  you  please,  the 
bundles  being  placed  regularly 
together,  a  dozen  to  the  shock, 

with  a  couple  of  straddling  riders,  or  "hudders,"  on  the 
top  to  shed  the  rain.  After  drying  for  a  few  days  in  the 
shock,  the  grain  is  next  either  hauled  to  the  barn  and 
mowed  away,  or  else  is  stacked  near  the  house,  where 
it  goes  through  a  period  of  "sweating,"  or  thorough 
evaporation  of  the  moisture  it  contains,  before  thresh- 
ing. Sometimes,  however,  if  it  is  cut  when  quite 
ripe,  the  grain  is  hauled  direct  to  the  threshing  machine 
in  the  field,  where,  amid  a  great,  thundering,  rough 
rhythm  and  a  shower  of  dust,  the  kernels,  or  berries. 


MODERN  HARVESTING. 


278 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


of  the  wheat  are  separated  from  the  straw  and  chaff, 
and  come  pouring  out  in  a  steady  stream  from  a  spout 
into  the  sacks  or  other  measures,  while  the  straw  and 
chaff  is  conveyed  up  on  a  long  elevator  and  let  fall 
to  the  ground  at  Its  end,  where  men  stack  it,  or  else  is 

blown  through  a  long 
movable  funnel  and  is 
stacked  automatically. 

This,  then,  is  the  height 
of  harvest,  when  the 
farmer  can  see  dollars  in 
sight,  and  has  the  final 
recompense  for  all  his 
long  labor.  It  is  the 
hardest  work  of  the  year, 
and  the  hottest,  early 
hours  and  late,  and  short 
noons;  but  when  it  is  all 
over,  and  the  wheat  is 
stored  away  in  sacks,  or 
lies  in  a  great  brown 
heap  on  the  barn  floor, 
ready  for  sale,  or  Is 
packed  away  in  a  gran- 
ary for  winter,  then  It  is 
with  much  relief  that  the  farmer  can  turn  to  the  fall 
work, — the  plowing  for  next  year's  grain,  the  sowing 
of  it,  the  picking  of  the  apples,  the  cider  press,  the 
pruning  of  the  orchard,  the  cutting  of  the  tasseled 
maize,  the  gathering  of  the  pumpkins,  corn  husking, 
and  the  sawing  of  the  winter  wood. 

Practically  the  same  process  is  gone  through  with 


"  WHAT  SHALL  THE  HARVEST  BE  ?" 


HARVEST.  279 

in  the  case  of  barley,  oats,  flax,  and  rye  as  with  wheat, 
only  the  riddles,  or  screens,  are  changed  in  the  thresher. 
Sometimes,  if  the  harvest  is  small,  the  threshing  is  de- 
layed until  perhaps  in  October,  when  the  machine  can 
best  attend  to  these  lesser  jobs;  or  it  is  put  off  still 
further  till  winter,  and  then  the  grain  is  tramped  out 
of  the  heads  by  horses,  or  beaten  out  by  a  flail  (we  can 
hear  the  dubbing  of  the  swipple  as  it  hits  the  barn 
floor) ,  and  the  straw  is  raked  off,  and  the  wheat  is  win- 
nowed and  cleaned  from  the  chaff  and  dust  in  one  of 
the  old-time  hand-turned  fanning  mills. 

It  is  all  of  it  interesting  work  to  one  who  loves  the 
country;  and,  as  I  have  said  of  haying,  a  good  swim 
in  a  pond  or  a  brook  in  the  evenings,  under  the  lustrous 
harvest  moon,  after  the  work  is  over,  to  wash  off  the 
perspiration  and  the  pieces  of  chaff  and  straw,  is  equally 
pleasurable.  But,  while  enjoyable  work,  scythes  and 
cradles  and  sickles  and  knives  must  all  be  sharpened, 
and  many  a  boy  has  got  his  start  in  life  turning  the 
grindstone  for  his  father.  The  boy  will  have  to  be 
careful  in  handling  the  sheaves,  or  he  may  find  himself 
scratched  by  a  briar  which  has  been  bound  up  with  the 
wheat;  and  he  must  be  careful  not  to  get  a  beard  of 
barley  down  his  throat,  and  not  to  run  too  swiftly  bare- 
foot in  the  stubble.  Not  many  children  that  have  ever 
been  on  a  farm  in  threshing-time  have  gone  through  it 
without  chewing  a  handful  of  the  grains  of  wheat  into 
"wax,"  which,  with  gum  from  the  cherry,  spruce,  and 
sweet  gum  trees,  is  the  country's  substitute  for  the 
manufactured  "chewing  gum"  of  the  city;  and  few  also 
but  have  made  oat  whistles  from  a  straw,  or  cornstalk 
fiddles  from  a  cane  of  maize. 


7.8o  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

In  the  early  days  the  farmers  occasionally  used  the 
hollow  stumps  of  sycamores  as  their  granaries,  boards 
being  laid  across  the  top  as  a  covering,  or  roof;  and 
these  hollow  stumps,  cut  high  purposely  and  sometimes 
being  very  wide  and  deep,  held  a  great  deal  of  grain. 
Some  of  these  old  sycamores  were  really  giants,  and 
all  generally  very  hollow  at  the  base;  and,  when  these 
big  cavernous  stumps  were  filled  to  the  overflowing, 
they  contained  more  grain  than  would  ordinarily  be 
imagined.  They  served  the  purpose  well,  and  were 
very  valuable  adjuncts  of  Nature  to  the  barn.  I  know 
of  one  still  in  existence,  which  Is  now  up  on  props  and 
is  used  as  a  corncrlb. 

The  raising  of  field  corn,  or  the  Indian  maize,  Is 
one  of  the  largely  followed  branches  of  farming  In  the 
South  and  West.  Most  of  the  work  of  harvesting  It 
on  large  tracts  of  land  Is  all  done  now  by  horse-drawn 
corn  cutters.  But  it  is  a  pleasure  to  slash  away  with  a 
corn  knife  among  the  rustling  leaves;  and  then  to  pile 
your  armfuls  together  slantingly  In  a  shock,  around  a 
"buck"  made  of  the  bent-over  stems  from  four  adjoin- 
ing "hills;"  and  later  to  bind  the  tops  together  with 
a  twisted  rope  of  the  stalks  themselves.  "Corn  husk- 
Ings"  and  "apple  bees"  in  the  old  days  were  great  occa- 
sions, and  lots  of  fun;  and  people  entered  into  the 
work  of  it  willingly,  and  with  no  thought  of  pay,  in 
a  way  they  would  hardly  do  nowadays.  Nowadays 
it  Is  generally  all  husked  by  hand  in  the  field,  with  the 
aid  of  a  stout  metal,  bone,  or  wooden  peg,  bound  by 
thongs  to  the  fingers,  with  which  the  shucks  are  easily 
torn  apart  to  the  ear;  or  is  husked,  and  the  fodder 
shredded  at  the  same  time,  by  machinery.     But  in  an 


HARVEST.  28 1 

old-time  "husking  bee"  the  ears  were  all  torn  off  from 
the  stalks,  and  were  heaped  in  great  piles  either  on  the 
barn  floor  or  on  a  clean  plat  of  grass  in  the  yard.  The 
neighbors  invited  would  gather  in,  divide  into  parties 
(as  at  a  spelling  match),  and  see  which  side  could  get 
the  most  ears  in  the  husking,  the  reward  for  the  victors 
being  the  first  swig  at  the  jug.  In  some  localities  it 
was  the  customary  understanding  that  whenever  a  girl 
happened  on  a  red  ear  in  the  husking  it  was  the  privi- 
lege of  all  boys  present  to  kiss  her;  and  the  correspond- 
ing prerogative  of  whatever  boy  shucked  such  an  ear 
to  invade  the  fair  ones,  and  forthwith  to  kiss  unchal- 
lenged the  girl  he  liked  the  best.  Thus  the  girls  had 
the  best  of  it  in  either  case;  and  many  a  love  story  has 
started  from  the  husking  party.  Rarer  even  than  red 
ears,  though,  were  those  having  an  uneven  number  of 
rows  of  kernels,  which  generally  are  arranged  evenly 
on  the  cob  in  rows  of  two  and  two.  It  was  quite  an 
achievement  to  have  the  luck  to  find  such  an  ear.  If 
there  was  a  fiddler  in  the  neighborhood  (as  there  was 
apt  to  be),  he  would  always  surely  be  invited;  and, 
while  the  girls  were  in  the  house,  getting  the  doughnuts 
and  cake  and  cider,  the  men  cleared  off  the  barn  floor 
ready  for  the  dance. 

The  harvest-home  festivals  of  our  generation,  when 
the  choicest  fruits,  and  samples  of  grain,  and  stock  are 
submitted  in  good-humored  competition  for  premiums, 
are  but  a  survival  of  the  old  English  custom  of  cele- 
brating the  homing,  or  final  garnering,  of  the  harvest 
with  merrymaking  and  feasting.  We  in  our  day,  too, 
are  always  glad  when  the  crops  have  been  gathered, 
so  much  so  that  the  countryman  does  not  shrink  from 


282      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

prolonging  the  ceremonies  with  good  things  the  whole 
year  round.  Hamerton,  I  remember,  In  "The  Sylvan 
Year,"  has  left  a  delightful  picture  of  the  harvest-time.^ 
Ceres  was  the  old  Roman  goddess  of  plenty;  and  it 
was  fitting  that  one  of  the  best  of  Shakespeare's  songs 
should  have  been  that  of  Ceres,  in  "The  Tempest,"  in 
blessing  Ferdinand  and  Miranda: 

"Earth's  increase,   foison  plenty, 
Bams  and  garners  never  empty; 
Vines  with  clustering  bunches  growing; 
Plants  with  goodly  burthen  bowing; 
Spring  come  to  }ou,   at  the  farthest. 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest! 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you ; 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you." 

Iris,  also,  in  the  same  play,  calls  some  reapers  from  the 
fields  to  join  in  a  dance  with  nymphs  in  honor  of  the 
same  twain : 

'You  sunburnt  sicklemen,  of  August  weary. 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry. 
Make  holiday ;  your  rye-straw  hats  put  on, 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing." 

I  am  reminded,  from  these  thoughts  upon  the  har- 
vest, of  the  most  beautiful  book  in  the  Bible,  the  story 
of  Ruth  the  Moabitess;  of  her  gleaning  after  the  reap- 

'  Since  writing  the  above  I  have  come  across  a  very  delightful 
description  of  an  old-time  "husking  bee"  out  in  the  barn,  and  the  frolic 
afterwards  in  the  spacious  kitchen,  with  its  apple-hung  rafters,  in  a 
charming  book  of  outdoor  sketches,  upon  another  "old  homestead,"  this 
time  in  New  England,  in  a  sketch  entitled  "Mist,"  in  Mr.  Herbert  Milton 
Sylvester's  "Prose  Pastorals." 


HARVEST.  283 

ers  in  the  field  of  Boaz,  "unto  the  end  of  barley 
han^est,  and  of  wheat  harvest;"  of  his  generosity  in 
having  some  of  the  grain  purposely  let  fall  for  her; 
of  her  own  beating  out  of  the  barley  she  had  gath- 
ered; of  the  picture  we  have  of  the  customs  and  life 
far  back  there  about  the  town  of  Bethlehem  ("Behold, 
he  winnoweth  barley  to-night  in  the  threshing  floor")  ; 
and  of  all  the  rest  of  that  poetic  Hebrew  pastoral. 
The  harvest  in  Bible  times  was  an  important  season 
of  the  year,  and  frequent  references  are  made  to  it  as 
designating  the  time  of  some  occurrence.  The  reaping 
was,  of  course,  all  done  in  the  original  way,  by  grasp- 
ing a  handful  of  the  grain  and  cutting  it  off  with  a 
sickle.  David  describes  the  process  indirectly,  by  com- 
paring the  wicked  to  grass  which  has  withered  before 
it  is  grown,  "wherewith  the  mower  filleth  not  his  hand, 
nor  he  that  bindeth  sheaves  his  bosom."  Frequent 
mention  is  made  also  of  the  threshing  floor,  where  the 
grain  was  winnowed  in  Nature's  own  method,  by  the 
fanning  and  sifting  of  the  driving  winds.  It  was  one 
of  the  kindly  precepts  in  the  Mosaic  law  that  "thou 
shalt  not  wholly  reap  the  corners  of  thy  field,  neither 
shalt  thou  gather  the  gleaning  of  thy  harvest,"  but  they 
were  to  be  left  "for  the  poor  and  for  the  sojourner." 
One  of  the  finest  of  the  parables  is  that  of  the  sower; 
and  the  harvest,  by  a  figure,  is  made  the  end  of  the 
world. 

The  harvest  is  thus  always  associated  in  our  minds 
with  the  pursuits  of  peace  and  quiet  country  life.  It 
Is  a  prophecy  which  men  still  hold  dear  that  some  day, 
in  "that  good  time  coming,"  the  nations  "shall  beat 


284  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

their  swords  into  plowshares,  and  their  spears  into 
pruning  hooks,"  and  so,  in  Shakespeare's  line  old  line, 

"To  reap  die  harvest  of  perpetual  peace." 

And  it  is  another  of  the  promises,  and  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  in  its  simplicity,  that,  with  the  bow  in 
the  cloud  as  the  token  of  the  covenant, 

"While  the  earth  lemaineth,  seedtime  and  harvest,  aiid  cold 
and  heat,  and  summer  and  winter,  and  day  and  night,  shall 
not  cease." 

Whittier  has  left  "A  Song  of  Hanest,"  and  I 
know  of  no  more  fitting  sentiment  with  which  to  close 
these  random  observations  than  his  beautiful  stanzas: 

"O  Painter  of  the  fruits  and  flowers! 
We  thank  thee  for  thy  wise  design 
\\1icrd>y  these  human  hands  of  ours 
In  Nature's  garden  work  with  thine. 

".And  thanks  that  from  our  daily  need 
The  joy  of  simple  faith  is  bom: 
That  be  who  smites  the  summer  weed 
May  trust  thee  for  the  autunm  com. 

"Give  fools  their  gold,  and  knaves  their  power; 
Let  fortune's  bubbles  rise  and  fall; 
Who  sows  a  field,  or  trains  a  flower. 
Or  plants  a  tree  is  more  than  alL 

For  he  who  blesses  most  is  blest ; 

And  God  and  man  shall  own  his  worth 
Wlio  toils  to  leave  as  his  bequest 

An  added  beautv  to  the  earth. 


HARVEST. 


285 


'And,  soon  or  late,  to  all  that  sow 
The  tinae  of  harvest  shall  be  given; 

The  flower  shall  bloom,  the  fruit  shall  grow, 
If  not  on  earth,  at  last  in  heaven." 


THE  HARVEST. 


THE  PAP  AW  THICKET. 


'  For  thee  the  ■wild  grape  glistens 

On  sunny  knoll  and  tree. 
The  slim  papaya  ripens 
Its  yellow  fruit  for  thee." 


—Bryant. 


"Tall  butternuts  and  hickories. 
The  papaw  and  persimmon  trees. 
The  beech,  the  chestnut,  and  the  oak." 

—Madison  Cawein. 

'Wild  plums  and  haws  and  berries,  papaws,  nuts,  grapes,  and  all  the 
fruits  of  unguarded  nature,  have  something  in 
them  to  feed  originality." 

—Maurice  Thompson. 

GROUP  of  papaw-trees,  with 
their  long,  broad  leaves,  colored 
yellow  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  is 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
characteristic  sights  in  autumn 
in  the  woods  of  our  Central 
States.  Doubtless  to  most 
Westerners  it  is  quite  familiar, 
but  perhaps  a  few  facts  about 
our  common  papaw  may  be  in- 
teresting to  people  living  in  the 
East,  where   it  is  altogether  an 

unknown  fruit,  or  to  others  who  have  never  seen  or 

tasted  it. 

Like  the  breadfruit  and  banana,  the  papaw,  when 

very  ripe,  forms  a  natural,  edible  fruit  which,  although 

excessively  sweet,  is  really  quite  palatable,  and  is  very 

286 


PAPAWS,   WITH    A  SPRAY  OF  LEAVES. 


THE  PAPAW  THICKET.  289 

nutritious.  Negroes  and  raccoons,  and  opossums  espe- 
cially, are  exceedingly  fond  of  them,  and  I  have  some- 
times found  the  hair  of  gray  squirrels  on  the  branches, 
although  I  do  not  think  that  many  animals  eat  them. 
Horses  and  cows  will  not  touch  them,  nor,  so  far  as 
I  have  observed,  will  hogs.  I  know  of  a  dog,  how- 
ever, who  will  eat  them  greedily.  Having  observed 
his  master  at  it  one  day,  and  having,  as  was  right,  a 
simple  belief  in  the  infallibility  of  his  master's  tastes 
and  preferences,  he,  too,  has  thought  it  is  good  for 
food,  and  rolls  his  eyes,  when  he  eats  them,  as  if  to 
express  ineffable  enjoyment. 

The  fruit,  somewhat  oval,  is  shaped  like  a  short, 
bulky  banana,  generally  smooth  and  symmetrical,  but 
sometimes  swelling  a  little  irregularly,  or  slightly 
bumpy,  or  bulging  out  unevenly  on  the  surface,  and 
varying  greatly  in  size,  from  mere  nubbins  no  bigger 
than  one's  thumb  to  fine,  large  specimens  that  are  often 
two  inches  thick  and  six  inches  long.  They  grow  at 
the  ends  of  thick  peduncles,^  sometimes  in  clusters  of 
four  or  five,  but  more  often  singly,  or  with  but  two  or 
three  in  a  clump  together,  these  clusters,  indeed,  not 
infrequently  thus  resembling  small  bunches  of  bananas.^ 
They  taste  best  and  are  richest  when  a  little  over-ripe, 
after  a  severe  frost  has  turned  their  green  skin  to  a 
mottled  black  and  yellow;  but,  if  picked  just  before 
frost,  they  ripen  well  in  straw  or  bran.  Every  boy  that 
has  known  of  them  has  had  his  secret  store  of  papaws 


'  These  peduncles  are  often  covered  with  rather  thick  short  hairs, 
soft  to  the  touch,  but  are  more  frequently  to  be  found  smooth  and  green. 

*The  odor  of  the  banana  and  the  papaw,  too,  is  not  unlike, — but 
what  a  difference  in  the  seeds ! 


290 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


ripening  away  somewhere  in  the  mows,  to  be  eaten 
with  great  gusto  when  the  time  arrived.  Picked  too 
green,  however,  they  wither  and  decay,  and  do  not 
mature;  and  to  taste  an  unripe  papaw 
puckers  the  mouth  as  badly  as  does 
a  green  persimmon.  Like  most  all 
fruit,  papaws  are  exceedingly  enjoy- 
able if  picked  when  ripe  direct  from 
the  trees.  There  is  then  a  fresh,  de- 
licious, creamy  flavor  which  is  a  little 
lacking  in  those  that  ripen  on  the 
ground.  The  sweetish  pulp  is  a 
golden  orange-and-yellow,  like  cus- 
tard; whence  doubtless  its  other  com- 
mon name,  the  custard  apple,  which 
was,  however,  possibly  suggested  and 
appropriated  from  the  original  trop- 
ical fruit  of  the  same  name.  The 
seeds,  surrounded  by  pulp,  and  in- 
closed, like  those  of  the  date,  in  a 
membranous  covering,  are  large  and 
flat,  sometimes  bluntly  triangular  in 
form,  but  more  often  resembling 
those  of  the  butter  bean  in  size  and 
shape,  and  are  a  glossy  brownish  black 
in  color,  as  if  varnished.  Their  shell 
is  very  hard,  almost  like  horn.  In  their  growth  they 
are  arranged  at  right  angles  to  the  ends  of  the  papaw, 
in  layers  generally  of  two  seeds  to  the  layer,  the  num- 
ber of  seeds,  of  course,  depending  upon  the  size  of 
the  fruit,  but  ranging  generally  from  two  or  three  to 
as  many  as  a  dozen.     These  seeds  can  always  be  seen. 


QUITE  A   CLUSTER  ! 


THE  PAPAW  THICKET.  29 1 

in  numbers  on  the  ground    beneath  the  trees  in  the 
fall  of  the  year. 

Papaws  have  a  taste  something  like  that  of  a 
banana,  or  like  a  musk-melon,  egg-plant,  pumpkin,  and 
squash  combined,  and  yet  with  a  distinct,  musty,  tangy 
flavor  all  their  own.  They  are  very  fragrant,  and  a 
dish  full  of  them  will  scent  a  whole  house  with  a  rich 
odor,  as  from  an  old  wine  cellar,  like  a  bunch  of 
arbutus  in  spring.  The  big,  soft,  mottled  fellows  are 
the  best,  and  are  really  delicious.  Indeed,  I  know  of 
a  distinguished  journalist  who  is  reported  to  have  said 
that  the  banana  simply  is  not  to  be  compared  in  the 
same  breath  with  the  papaw. 

Our  papaw  of  the  States,  however,  must  not  be 
confounded  with  the  real  custard  apple  of  tropical 
America  and  the  West  Indies.  The  custard  apple  fam- 
ily botanically  resembles  the  magnolia  family,  and  all 
are  tropical  except  the  one  genus  of  our  common 
papaw.  Of  it,  the  leaves  especially  are  much  like 
those  of  a  magnolia,  though  thinner.  A  papaw-tree, 
also,  both  in  its  leaves  and  in  its  slate-colored  bark, 
frequently  resembles  at  a  distance  a  young  hickory  or 
sassafras  sapling.  The  leaves  are  downy  when  young, 
but  a  smooth  and  shiny  green  when  mature.  Some  of 
the  papaw  leaves  are  a  foot  or  more  in  length,  and  are 
especially  beautiful  in  their  autumn  yellow;  fluttering 
in  the  breeze  like  streaming  pennants,  or  slowly  sway- 
ing like  waving  gonfalons, — or  mayhap,  as  in  emula- 
tion of  the  banderoles  of  a  lance,  drooping  in  full 
showy  color  from  the  twigs,  like  the  feathers  that  hang 
from  the  lock  of  an  Indian.  The  leaves,  consequently, 
frequently   overlap    irregularly,    one    falling   upon    an- 


292  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

other's  edge,  like  the  scales  of  an  inverted  cone,  the 
tips  of  the  upper  ones  concealing  the  bases  of  the 
lower  leaves,  thus  giving  a  peculiar  sort  of  imbricated 
appearance  to  the  foliage.  The  branches,  ordinarily 
slender,  spread  upward  evenly,  when  unhindered  in  the 
open,  and  shape  themselves  into  characteristic  pyra- 
midal forms  (the  wigwams  of  the  forest),  though 
it  is  not  uncommon  to  find  them  singularly  dis- 
torted, with  the  main  stems  of  the  trees  a  trifle 
bow-shaped,  as  they  reach  across  a  streamlet.  The 
wood  is  very  soft  and  brittle,  and  hence  practically 
worthless  for  commercial  purposes,  although,  on  ac- 
count of  its  lightness,  it  is  not  to  be  despised  if  used 
for  a  cane  or  a  staff,  and  many  nice  straight  sticks  of 
it  can  be  found.  The  bark,  however,  though  close  to 
the  wood,  peels  off  easily,  like  that  of  the  slippery  elm, 
and  is  very  tough  and  pliant;  the  inside  layers,  indeed, 
being  so  strong  that,  though  they  are  apparently  thin 
and  tender,  like  raffia,  yet,  like  it  also,  they  can  scarcely 
be  broken  by  the  hardest  efforts.  Boys  therefore  often 
make  whips  from  long-drawn  ribbons  of  the  bark,^ 
farmers  sometimes  tie  their  broken  harness  together 
with  thongs  of  it,  and  fishermen  string  their  catch  on 
strips  and  twisted  strands  of  it;-  for,  if  you  cut  in 
'^''deeply  at  the  base  of  a  tall,  smooth  sapling,  you  can 
tear  the  bark  off  up  to  the  very  tips,  and  then,  after 
removing  the  rough,  gray  outside,  there  will  remain 
as  strong  and  pliable  a  withe  as  one  could  wish.     The 


'  "The  bark,"  says  Dr.  W.  C.  Gray  ("Musings  by  Camp-fire  and 
Wayside,"  page  127),  "makes  famous  whistles  and  especially  fine  whips. 
We  used  to  make  whips,  the  'snap'  of  which  could  be  heard  a  mile,  and 
would  echo  like  a  rifle-shot." 

'See  Sargent's  "Silva,"  vol.  I,  page  24. 


> 

CO 

O 

H 
S 
w 

o 


THE  PAPAW  THICKET.  295 

name  papaw  has  variously  been  accredited  to  an  In- 
dian, Creole,  or  Malay  origin,  but  is  probably  of  the 
last.  The  botanical  name  of  our  Northern  variety  is 
Asimina  triloba;^  the  generic  term  being  probably  from 
the  Algonquin,  and  meaning  by  derivation  "sleeve 
fruit,"  from  its  shape,  and  the  specific  referring  to  the 
three-parted  flower.  There  are  also  three  other  shrub- 
like species  whose  fruit  is  scarcely  so  edible.  In  the 
United  States  the  papaw  is  found  from  Western  New 
York  and  Pennsylvania  westward  to  Missouri,  north- 
ward to  Michigan  (occasionally  even  in  Ontario  and 
Wisconsin),  and  southward  to  Texas  and  most  of  the 
Southern  States.  It  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  at- 
tractive of  the  wild  fruits  of  the  woods,  as  it  is  also 
perhaps  the  largest  of  those  native  to  the  forest,  and 
the  name  of  "Northern  banana"  has  been  suggested 
for  it." 

The  axillary  flowers,  always  solitary,  precede  or 
accompany  the  budding  leaves  in  spring,  blossoming 
out  cup-like  in  some  wild,  shady  spot  in  the  woods, 
sometimes  drooping  and  pendent,  like  a  bell.     They 


'  See  the   Century  Dictionary,   under  "Asimina." 

"  Mr.  Bradford  Torrey  relates  the  following,  in  a  paper  "On  the 
Upper  St.  John's,"  in  "A  Florida  Sketch-book"  (page  126).  He  was 
carrying  in  his  hand  a  sprig  from  one  of  the  papaw  shrubs  of  the  region, 
just  then  in  full  bloom  ("large,  odd  shaped,  creamy-white,  heavy- 
scented  blossoms"),  when  he  met  a  negro. 

"'What  is  this,'  I  asked.  'I  dunno,  sir.'  'Isn't  it  papaw?'  'No, 
sir,  that  ain't  no  papaw;'  and  then,  as  if  he  had  just  remembered 
something,  he  added,  'That 's  dog  banana.' " 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  some  of  those  who  depreciate  our 
Northern  variety  might  even  appropriate,  in  derision,  the  negro's  appel- 
lation to  our  own,  although,  as  I  have  said,  our  papaw  is  ordinarily 
not  much  relished  by  dogs. 


296 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


are  at  first  of  a  yellowish,  greenish  tinge,  turning  later 
to  a  dull,  reddish  purple  or  a  rusty  brown.  A  light 
frost  easily  shrivels  them,  and  they  wither  and  fall. 
A  few,  perhaps,  secluded  beneath  some  protecting 
branches,  may  survive  the  cold,  but 
the  papaws  will  be  few  and  far  be- 
tween that  year.  These  blossoms  have 
sometimes  a  singular  and  slightly  un- 
pleasant odor  to  them,  like  that 
which  comes  from  the 
leaves  or  bark,  also,  when 
rubbed,    pressed,    or 

bruised,  and  similar  to  ^ll^.:^W  ^^^  that  of  the 
offensive  ailantus;  but^^^H^aBT^^  they  are  not 
unlike  those  of  the  jj^^^BH^^  common  sweet- 
smelling  garden  J^ ^mgSf  shrub  (Calycanthiis 
floridus)  K^^— -     'WS^     V^Hs  '^  ^^^^  ^^'^  color,  and 

quently,  when  in  full 
faintly,  and  not  un- 
suggestive  of  the  latter's  rich 
berry  fragrance.  It  is  said  that 
odor  will  cause  sickness,  if  it  is 
breathed  too  long.  Yet,  notwith- 
standing the  fetid  smell,  the  larvae  of 
one  of  our  butterflies  ( Iphiclides  ajax, 
the  zebra  swallow-tail)  prefer  the  pa- 
paw  leaf  to  any  other  food;^  and,  since  the  first  brood 
from  last  year's  chrysalids  is  out  before  the  papaw  leaves 
appear,  the  females  have  the  opportunity  to  lay  their 
eggs  upon  them,  many  of  which,  howev^er,  are  discov- 
ered and  eaten  by  Insects  and  spiders.     What  instinct 


PAPAW   BLOSSOMS. 


See  the  \vorks  on  "Butterflies"  by  Edwards,  Scudder,  and  Denton. 


THE  PAPAW  THICKE'I'.  297 

is  it  that  teaches  them  this  preference  of  their  off- 
spring? Can  It  be  the  memory  of  past  experiences  of 
their  own,  now  become  an  intuition  through  the  prac- 
tice of  long  generations?  And  why  should  they  like 
the  papaw? 

Papaw  thickets  are  frequently  to  be  seen  in  open 
clumps  on  hillsides,  but  more  often  are  concealed  in 
secluded  nooks  in  the  woods;  though  they  are  seldom 
so  secluded  that  some  boy  or  other  has  not  discovered 
their  whereabouts,  and  I  have  generally  found  that 
others  have  been  there  besides  myself.  They  will 
stand  shade,  and  may  sometimes  be  found  growing 
beneath  their  larger  forest  brethren  along  the  banks 
of  woodland  brooks;  but  I  have  noticed  that  they 
relish  an  open  exposure  to  the  sunlight  also.  The 
papaw-tree  is  ordinarily  on  the  order  and  size  of  a 
shrub,  but  I  have  not  seldom  seen  specimens  fifteen 
or  twenty  feet  in  height,  and  well  proportioned,  with 
a  trunk  diameter  of  perhaps  four  Inches.  Sargent,  in 
his  "Sllva,"  says  they  will  sometimes  have  the  diam- 
eter of  a  foot  and  reach  a  height  of  some  thirty  or 
forty  feet.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  trees  bear 
a  larger  and  better  tasting  fruit,  and  more  of  it,  when 
comparatively  young,  in  the  form  of  a  dense  shrub, 
than  they  do  when  they  have  grown  taller,  though  I 
have  found  good  papaws  on  fair-sized  trees. 

There  would  seem  to  be,  of  Asim'ina  triloba,  really 
two  kinds,  an  early  papaw  and  a  later  variety.  The 
fruit  of  the  former  Is  somewhat  larger,  and  of  a  deep 
chrome  yellow  inside;  and  I  have  noticed  that  the 
leaves  are  a  deeper  green,  and  remain  on  the  tree 
longer,  and  do  not  turn  so  soon;  and  the  papaws  on 


298      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

these  trees  will  all  be  on  the  ground  many  days  before 
those  on  the  others.  The  late  variety  is  smaller  and 
more  irregular  in  shape,  and  its  pulp  is  a  whitish  cream 
color.  The  flavor  of  this  later  variety  is  perhaps  a 
little  more  delicate  than  that  of  the  earlier,  v/hich  is 
coarser  in  fiber.  Many  of  these  later  papaws  will  be 
hanging  in  clumps  in  October,  and  will  still  be  hard 
and  firm,  while  those  of  their  earlier  neighbors  will 
all  lie  rotting  on  the  ground.  Yet  the  leaves  turn 
sooner  than  those  of  the  earlier  variety,  and  frequently 
will  be  falling  while  the  fruit  is  yet  clinging  to  the 
twigs.  These  peculiarities  may  perhaps  be  partly  ac- 
counted for  by  the  situation  of  the  individual  trees, 
but  I  think  not  wholly  so.  I  have  noticed,  however, 
that  those  in  deep  forest  shade  are  usually  of  the  ear- 
lier type,  and  retain  their  leaves  the  longest. 

Papaw  gathering  is  one  of  the  delights  of  the 
autumn,  and  the  eating  of  them  one  of  the  feasts  of 
the  year.  I  like  to  pick  them,  and  to  collect  them  from 
the  ground,  where  they  have  been  shaken  off  by  the 
wind,  or  have  fallen  in  their  maturity.  As  I  look  at 
them,  these  long,  pod-like  shapes,  ripening  through  the 
summer  and  autumn,  I  seem  to  feel  a  sort  of  primeval 
instinct  coming  upon  me;  I  feel  an  intuition  that  these 
are  unlike  the  other  seed-vessels  of  the  wild  vines,  and 
I  say,  "Ha,  man,  here  is  something  edible !  You  need 
no  longer  starve  by  the  wayside." 

The  papaw  prospers  best  in  its  wild  state,  in  rich 
soil  along  the  banks  of  woodland  brooks,  and  the 
thickets  are  sometimes  so  crowded  together  as  fre- 
quently to  occupy  the  land  almost  to  the  exclusion  of 
the    seedlings    of    the    other   surrounding   varieties    of 


THE  PAPAW  THICKET.  299 

veterans  that  have  protected  these,  their  foster  chil- 
dren. For  some  reason  the  tree  is  seldom  successfully 
transplanted;  but  the  seeds,  if  planted  in  the  fall,  as 
Nature  sows  them,  will  sprout  in  a  year,  and  soon 
thrive  as  strong  and  healthy  little  trees,  although  they 
require  generally  eight  or  ten  years  of  sapling  prepa- 
ration before  they  begin  to  bear  fruit.  My  great- 
grandfather's woods,  in  southwestern  Ohio  (not  far 
from  the  homestead),  now  cut  down,  at  one  time  had 
so  many  papaw-trees  in  its  underbrush  that  it  was 
known  ev^erywhere  as  "the  papaw  woods."  The 
clumps  of  papaw  bushes  in  it  used  to  be  so  dense  and 
the  papaws  themselves  so  numerous  that  bushel  basket- 
fuls  have  been  gathered  there,  and  wagons  have  been 
driven  in  to  take  them  away,  the  ground  being  literally 
covered  with  the  fallen  fruit,  I  know,  too,  of  more 
than  one  other  woods  that  might  well  be  called  "the 
papaw  woods,"  so  dense  in  them  are  the  thickets  of 
papaw-trees,  almost  like  groves  of  them,  with  the  great 
greenish-yellow,  esculent,  fleshy,  pod-like  forms  hang- 
ing in  the  air,  or  lying  among  the  drifted  leaves  of 
their  own  parents,  nibbled  perchance  by  a  rabbit  or 
eaten  into  by  insects. 

The  papaw  in  the  early  days  was  more  of  a  feature 
of  the  woods  than  it  is  now,  and  the  fruit  was  more 
generally  eaten.  I  know  of  one  singular  old  character 
who  would  gather  a  basketful  of  luscious  papaws  and 
then  trudge  twelve  miles  to  the  city  with  it  to  sell, 
along  with  some  hickory  nuts  and  walnuts,  as  his  stock 
in  trade;  and  he  never  had  any  trouble  in  getting  rid 
of  them.  Papaws  can  still  be  seen  for  sale  in  the  stalls 
of  the  Cincinnati  markets  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  and 


3CX)  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

have  their  customers;  for  It  is  quite  a  cherished  weak- 
ness In  some  people  to  like  them. 

The  papaw,  perhaps  because  of  Its  puckery  taste 
when  green,  is  always  connected  In  my  mind  with  per- 
simmons, although  the  persimmon  comes  later,  and  Is 
best  relished  after  Thanksgiving.  I  know  of  but  one 
wild  persimmon-tree  In  this  township  (though  there 
are  others  in  the  county),  but  I  will  wager  It  has  the 
true  metal  to  it.  I  have  come  upon  groves  of  wild 
persimmons  In  the  woods  of  central  Arkansas,  where 
the  trees  are  thirty  feet  high  and  over,  whose  fruit 
was  nearly  as  large  as  a  walnut,  and  as  luscious  and 
sweet  as  sugar.  We  would  gather  tree  huckleberries 
with  them,  too,  and  a  feast  of  these  two  wild  fruits 
of  the  forest  was  a  rare  treat  indeed  as  we  ate  our 
lunch  at  noon  beside  a  brook, 

Papaws  are  also  associated  to  me  with  the  finding 
of  arrow-heads  and  the  rising  up  of  that  spirit  of  rov- 
ing and  hunting  which  comes  to  us  all  at  nuttlng-time. 
A  papaw-tree,  with  Its  graceful  yellow  foliage,  seems 
to  me  to  be  filled  with  the  very  spirit  of  the  autumn 
woods.  A  woods  without  papaws  lacks  something,  or, 
rather,  would  be  more  of  a  woods,  would  have  more 
of  the  true  forest  flavor,  if  there  were  only  an  occa- 
sional clump  of  papaws  on  a  ridgeslde  or  in  some  pic- 
turesque dingle  beside  a  brook.  The  scent  of  a  gray 
squirrel  or  the  whiff  of  a  deer  might  then  fill  our  nos- 
trils, and  the  glimpse  of  a  wigwam  near  the  spring 
would  only  complete  the  papaw  thicket's  native  wlld- 
ness. 

It  is  entertaining  to  read  the  accounts  of  the  pio- 
neer botanists  in  this  country,    and  of  their  enthusiasm 


THE  PAPAW  THICKET.  30 1 

in  the  discovery  and  preserv^ation  of  our  trees  and 
flowers.'  It  was  but  natural  that  the  papaw,  being  an 
unknown  variety  of  the  New  World,  should  not  escape 
them.  "A  jar  of  papaw  flowers  and  fruit"  (along 
with  specimens  and  seeds  of  others  of  our  trees,  at  that 
time  quite  rare  and  curious)  was  consequently  sent  over 
by  John  Bartram,  the  traveler,  to  Peter  Collinson  in 
England  in  1738  (acknowledged  in  April,  1739), 
which  is  one  of  the  first  instances  of  any  attempt  at 
its  introduction  abroad;  and  Lord  Petre's  similar  ef- 
forts, it  is  gratifying  to  know,  met  with  great  success, 
as  appears  from  Collinson's  later  letters.  Collinson 
was  very  inquisitive  about  the  tree,  and  asked  for  all 
the  details  as  to  its  flowers,  fruit,  foliage,  growth,  soil 
preferred,  size  of  the  tree,  etc.,  that  Bartram  could 
give,  to  enable  Lord  Petre  to  identify  it  among  his 
shrubs  and  plants,  he  having  neglected  to  draw  it  when 
in  Virginia,  and  relying  solely  for  its  propagation  on 
the  seeds;  and,  Collinson  adds,  in  a  postscript,  "If  it 
has  any  virtues,  pray  mention  them:" — information 
which  we  fear,  howev^er,  Bartram  was  never  able  to 
give, — for  it  has  no  virtues;  it  is  only  edible  and  beau- 
tiful." Theodore  Mason  Harris,  too,  In  his  "Journal 
of  a  Tour  over  the  Alleghany  Mountains  into  Ohio" 
(Boston,  1805;  pages  61,  97),  made  in  the  spring  of 


'  I  am  indebted  to  the  Librarian  of  Congress  for  an  extended  bib- 
liography on  the  papaw ;  in  particular,  I  am  under  obligation  to  him 
for  my  references  to  Collinson,  Bartram,  Harris,  Mr.  Mather,  and  Miss 
Murfree. 

^  See  William  Darlington's  "Memorials  of  John  Bartram  and 
Humphry  Marshall,"  Philadelphia,  1849.  Pages  100,  ixi,  izx,  laS, 
129,  145,  365- 


302  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

1803,  mentions  the  papaw  as  growing  in  the  greatest 
abundance,  along  with  the  dogwood  and  other  kinds 
of  trees,  "on  the  sides  of  creeks,  and  near  the  river" — 
just  as  it  does  to-day — and  enumerates  it  among  the 
wild  fruit-trees  of  that  region,  with  the  cherry,  mul- 
berry, persimmon,  and  plum.  Others,  too,  of  the  early 
explorers  and  students  of  our  forests,  like  Michaux, 
have  given  their  descriptions  of  the  papaw.  How 
interested  they  were  in  these  discoveries  and  obser- 
vations among  the  trees,  and  how  eager  we  should 
have  been  also  to  find  new  varieties,  and  how  delighted 
we  are  in  these  days  when  perchance  we  do ! 

Outside  of  the  many  books  on  trees,  however  (and 
even  in  the  best  of  these  the  accounts  are  not  very 
extended),  the  papaw  has  not  found  a  conspicuous 
place  in  our  literature.  Dr.  Gray  places  it  among  the 
trees  that  he  loved  in  "This  Paradise  of  Ours." 
Bryant  speaks  of  "the  slim  papaya"  ripening  "its  yel- 
low fruit,"  and,  since  he  puts  it  in  company  with  the 
wild  grape  of  the  West,  I  have  supposed  that  he  means 
by  it  our  common  papaw.  Mr.  Madison  Cawein  also 
enumerates  the  papaw  among  the  forest-trees  of  his 
native  Kentucky,  where  it  is,  of  course,  quite  common. 
Fosdick  mentions  the  blossoms  in  a  couplet. 

There  is  one  amusing  passage  which  I  must 
quote,  in  Mr.  Fred  Mather's  humorous  book  of 
reminiscences,  "Men  I  Have  Fished  With,"  in  a  chap- 
ter on  "Fish,  'Coons,  and  Papaws"  (pages  264,  265), 
which  doubtless  voices  the  sentiments  of  many  who 
have  tried  to  like  the  papaw,  but  who  could  never 
acquire  the  taste : 


THE  PAPAW  THICKET.  303 

"As  the  summer  waned  and  the  first  chill  days  of  September 
approached  Frank  asked  me:    'Did  you  ever  cat  a  papaw?' 

"  'No;    what  is  a  papaw?' 

"  'They  are  a  fine  fruit,  and  grow  on  a  small  tree.  They 
are  shaped  like  a  cucumber  and  are  like  custard.  There  is  a 
papaw  grove  down  by  the  river.  They  'II  be  ripe  now  in  a 
few  days,  and  we  '11  make  up  a  party  and  go  'coon  hunting. 
'Coons  like  'em,  and  you  can  always  start  one  in  the  papaws 
when  they  're  ripe." 

"I  had  seen  the  trees  when  out  after  wild  plums,  which 
were  plenty  in  that  part  of  Wisconsin,  and  were  large  and 
excellent,  but  the  papaws  were  merely  wondered  at  and  passed. 
I  think  there  were  a  dozen  in  our  party  when  we  started  for 
'coons  on  a  moonlight  night.  Except  Frank  and  Henry, 
Charley  Guyon,  John  Clark,  and  Bill  Patterson,  the  names 
are  forgotten.  Half  a  dozen  dogs,  some  of  no  particular  breed 
and  others  that  seemed  to  be  of  all  breeds  mixed  without  re- 
gard to  proportion,  went  along  as  a  necessary  part  of  the  outfit. 

'*I  tasted  my  first  papaw,  but  have  yet  to  taste  the  second. 
The  others  ate  them  with  a  relish.  All  I  remember  is  that  the 
fruit  was  shaped  something  like  a  banana,  but  shorter,  and 
had  the  taste  of  a  raw  potato  ground  into  a  paste;  its  seeds 
were  as  large  as  a  lima  bean.  Of  course,  I  might  learn  to  like 
them,  but  Potosi  boys  acquired  the  taste  in  infancy." 

It  is  altogether  likely  that  this  "first  papaw"  of 
Mr.  Mather's  was  one  in  the  unripe,  milky  state,  when 
it  is  decidedly  unpleasant  and  disagreeable,  or  else  he 
would  hardly  so  have  humiliated  the  noble  fruit  by 
characterizing  the  delicious  pulp  as  "raw  potato  ground 
into  a  paste."  His  tree,  too,  was  from  one  of  those 
rare  groves  which  have  wandered  as  far  north  as  Wis- 
consin, and  the  papaw  never  attains  to  a  fine  develop- 


304  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

merit  or  has  much  of  a  flavor  farther  north  than  the 
Central  States  or,  at  the  outpost,  Michigan,^  and  is  at 
its  best  in  the  fertile  valleys  along  the  Ohio. 

It  is  refreshing  to  find  at  least  one  literary  man 
who  was  a  genuine  worshiper  at  this  wayside  shrine. 
After  speaking  of  the  wild  muscadine  grapes  of  the 
South,  the  late  Maurice  Thompson  remarks,  in  his 
"By-Ways  and  Bird-Notes"    (pp.   100,   loi): 

"Next  to  the  muscadine  among  wild  fruit  I  rate  the  papaw 
as  best.  It  is  genuinely  wild,  rich,  racy,  and,  to  me,  palatable 
and  digestible.  I  once  sent  a  box  of  papaws  to  a  great  Boston 
author,  whose  friendship  I  chanced  to  possess,  and  was  much 
disappointed  to  learn  that  the  musty  odor  of  the  fruit  was  very 
distasteful  to  him.  He  fancied  that  the  papaws  v/ere  rotten! 
I  dare  say  he  never  tasted  them;  and  if  he  had,  their  flavor 
would  have  been  too  rank  and  savage  for  his  endurance." 

Miss  Murfree  mentions  the  papaw  in  at  least  two 
instances  in  her  stories  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains. 
She  places  it  with  the  laurel  along  the  banks  of  the 
Solacutta  River,  in  "In  the  Clouds"  (page  64)  ;  and  it 
was  a  pole  trimmed  there  from  a  papaw-tree  which 
Mink  Lorey  used  as  a  lever  to  raise  the  mill  gate  with. 
In  "The  Despot  of  Broomsedge  Cove,"  too  (pages  9 
and  12),  she  has  a  locust  shrilling  in  a  papaw-tree, 
and  it  was  against  a  papaw-tree  that  Eli  Strove,  the 
constable,  leaned  as  he  sat  upon  a  bowlder.  These 
are,  of  course,  simply  incidental  touches  of  local  color 

'  The  papaw,  however,  has  for  all  time  been  immortalized  in 
being  perpetuated  as  the  name  of  the  Paw  Paw  River,  of  Michigan, 
and  of  some  half-dozen  municipalities  called  Pawpaw,  in  as  many 
different  States,  one  of  which,  in  Michigan,  has  reached  the  dignity  of 
becoming  a  county  seat,  with  a  population  of  nearly  fifteen  hundred 
inhabitants. 


THE  PAP  AW  THICKET. 


305 


which  indicate  the  well-known  character  of  that  region 
in  Tennessee,  where  papaw-trees  abound. 

In  "The  Little  Shepherd  of  Kingdom  Come"  also 
(page  7),  by  Mr.  John  Fox,  Jr.,  is  this  sentence,  upon 
Chad  and  old  Nance,  showing  that  the  papaw  is  in 
favor  among  the  Cumberland  Mountain  folk  as  well 
as  in  the  Great  Smokies: 

"With  his  Barlow  knife,  he  s\Aiftly  stripped  a  bark  string 
from  a  papaw  bush  near  by,  folded  and  tied  his  blanket,  and 
was  swinging  the  little  pack  to  his  shoulder,  when  the  tinkle 
of  a  cow-bell  came  through  the  bushes,  close  at  hand." 

This  glimpse  of  a  picture  of  the  cow  feeding  among 
the  papaw  bushes  is,  too,  a  familiar  one  to  any  one 
acquainted  with  our  papaw-covered  pastures. 

But,  other  than  these,  and  perhaps  some  few  other 
chance  references,  the  papaw  does  not  seem  greatly 
to  have  been  celebrated  in  either  song  or  story.  Its 
really  beautiful  and  flowing  foliage,  rippling  away  in 
its  autumn  yellow,  with  the  fruit  amidst  the  leaves,  and 
the  flowers  and  bark,  have  all  indeed  been  too  little 
appreciated. 


NATURE  AND  THE  CITY. 


"  Now  from  the  town, 
Buried  in  smoke  and  sleep  and  noisome  damps. 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  de^vy  fields. 
Where  freshness  breathes,  and  dash  the  trembling:  drops 
From  the  bent  bush,  as  through  the  verdant  maze 
Of  sweetbriar  hedges  I  pursue  my  walk ; 
Or  taste  the  smell  of  dairy." 

—Thomson. 

LIKE  the  cheery  greeting  one  gets  In  the 
country.  Every  one  always  speaks  to  every 
one  else,  as  if  in  acknowledgment  of  some 
world-old  mark  of  blue  blood  that  shines 
from  the  eyes  of  every  human  being.  How 
different  from  the  hasty,  heartless  nod  of 
recognition  one  gets  in  cities,  even  from 
the  best  acquaintances!  Democracy  is 
greatness;  most  people  are  aristocrats. 

Among  country  people  we  come  into 
contact  with  simple,  elementary  impres- 
sions. They  are,  I  think,  happier  than 
city  people,  more  wholesomely  happy.  There  is 
less  attention  paid  to  the  whims  of  fastidious  fash- 
ion, there  is  less  conventional  life,  there  is  more 
freedom  in  the  country  than  in  the  city.  There  Is  an 
essential  directness  and  frankness  of  character  and 
speech  in  all  people  who  live  In  the  country.  The  very 
outdoors  Itself,  their  nearness  to  Nature,  their  sim- 
plicity of  life,  and  their  self-reliance  may  make  them 
so.      Pure  air  and  the  best  of   food  contribute  to  It. 

306 


A    COUNTRY    LANE 


NATURE  AND  THE  CITY.  309 

Most  city  people  seem  to  be  diametrically  opposite. 
They  do  not  know  what  the  natural  life  is.  Theirs  is 
the  artificial,  conventional  manner,  and  one  who  is 
unskillful  enough  to  be  ingenuous  is  not  seldom  con- 
sidered a  numskull.  Yet  the  men  of  cities  are  much 
more  effeminate  and  altogether  less  stalwart  than  their 
countrymen  of  the  fields.  Almost  all  the  unhealthful 
life  of  cities  is  entirely  lost  out  in  the  open,  where  life 
is  pure  and  sweet,  and  the  mind  uncontaminated  and 
natural.  The  farmer  notices  the  wind  and  the  signs  of 
the  weather.  He  is  closer  to  Nature  than  most  men, 
more  dependent  upon  Nature.  What  city  people,  except 
the  weather  observer,  ever  know  the  direction  of  the 
wind,  or  can  tell  whether  it  is  likely  to  rain  or  not? 

There  is  a  dignity  in  tilling  God's  soil  which  no 
other  avocation  in  life  possesses.  Adam's  original  oc- 
cupation was  to  care  for  the  trees  in  the  garden,  "to 
dress  it  and  to  keep  it;"  but,  after  the  fall,  the  first 
work  that  was  given  him,  that  which  the  Lord  decided 
was  then  most  fit,  was  the  tilling  of  the  ground  and 
the  tending  of  sheep,  as  if  by  these  (even  though  in 
the  sweat  of  his  face  he  should  eat  bread,  and  should 
labor  under  the  disadvantages  of  thorns  and  thistles 
to  gain  the  herb  of  the  field)  so  to  keep  his  mind,  as 
far  as  possible,  from  the  baser  and  more  ignoble  sides 
of  man's  life,  as  it  has  now  come  to  be.  Little  they 
knew  in  those  days  of  the  modern  meaning  of  civil- 
ization. The  Lord  God,  who  placed  him  in  the  gar- 
den, is  wise  in  His  selections.  Shall  we  not  live  like- 
wise as  He  wished  our  forefather? 

Farming   and   shepherding — these   have   been   the 
life  work  of  some  of  the  noblest  of  mankind  from  the 


3IO  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

beginning.  Tilling  the  soil  was  not  the  curse.  The 
curse  was  the  expulsion  from  the  presence  of  God. 
And  so,  as  If  with  the  memory  of  thousands  of  years 
within  him,  farming — a  means  of  livelihood,  of  some 
kind,  in  the  open  air — is  not  only  the  most  primitive 
occupation  known  to  man,  but  is  the  fundamental  basis 
of  procedure  upon  which  all  great  business  enterprises 
are  conducted.  The  farm  is  the  type  in  the  study  of 
political  economy. 

So  that  our  poetic  appreciations  of  Nature  are  per- 
force in  time  translated  into  terms  of  industry.  The 
lover  of  the  woods  becomes  a  forester  or  lumberman; 
the  lover  of  animals  a  shepherd,  cattle  raiser,  stock 
breeder;  the  lover  of  open  country  life,  such  as  Virgil 
depicts  in  his  "Georgics,"  becomes  the  bee  keeper, 
poultry  raiser,  fruit  grower,  and  general  cultivator  of 
the  soil  for  wheat  and  corn  and  garden  produce. 

We  were  made  to  work  and  to  earn  our  bread,  and 
the  man  or  woman  who  does  not  labor,  and  work 
earnestly  and  with  interest,  is  a  parasite  upon  his  fel- 
lows. Yet  not  only  to  work;  but  to  enjoy  our  work 
and  others'  work,  to  have  the  satisfaction  of  some 
repose  after  work  well  done,  the  opportunity  of  study- 
ing and  comparing  life  and  the  methods  of  life,  and 
of  reading  the  literature  of  other  men's  labors.  We 
were  made  to  work,  but  not  to  slave.  Rest  and  quiet 
are  as  much  a  part  of  life  as  the  work  of  the  day,  and 
almost  as  essential  to  the  real  spiritual  return  of  the 
work  as  the  toil  is  itself. 

Yet  does  the  farmer,  when  he  turns  the  wheat  over 
In  his  hand,  look  admiringly  at  the  beautiful  grains? 
Not  a  bit  of  it.     He  is  scrutinizing  them  to  see  whether 


NATURE  AND  THE  CITY.  3 1 1 

the  wheat  Is  well  threshed,  Is  full-bodied  or  thin;  in 
short,  whether  it  will  sell  well.  Farmers,  as  a  rule, 
are  too  literal  disciples  of  Emerson  in  their  philosophy 
of  the  beautiful.  The  beautiful  to  them  is  too  fre- 
quently the  useful.  Beautiful  fields!  Why?  Because 
they  will  raise  good  crops  of  wheat.  I  am  reminded, 
in  this  connection,  of  a  quaint  and  characteristic  anec- 
dote by  Thoreau  in  his  journal  ("Autumn,"  October 
7,   i860) : 

"Remarking  to  old  Mr.  the  other  day  on  the  abun- 
dance of  apples,  'Yes,'  says  he,  'and  fair  as  dollars,  too.'  That 's 
the  kind  of  beauty  they  see  in  apples." 

Poetry  vanishes  somewhat  when  we  make  money 
out  of  Nature ;  and  farming,  followed  solely  as  a  scheme 
for  riches,  has  as  much  as  any  other  occupation  a  tend- 
ency to  make  men  sordid.  Yet  even  as  a  business  it 
is  the  nicest  of  any,  and  is  the  most  largely  practiced; 
and  the  reason  it  is  not  often  more  remunerative  is 
that  the  farmers  themselves  do  not  always  use  good 
sense.  But  as  a  pleasure  it  is  always  a  profitable 
pastime. 

It  takes  considerable  intelligence  to  manage  a  farm 
well,  and  the  old  supposition  that  any  body  can  farm 
is  as  baseless  in  reasoning  as  it  is  without  foundation 
in  fact.  The  increasing  number  and  importance  of  our 
agricultural  courses  in  higher  and  more  elementary  edu- 
cation is  the  strongest  possible  testimony  to  the  large 
part  which  the  successful  cultivation  of  the  soil  holds 
in  our  national  life. 

I  remember  telling  an  old  farmer  once  how  a  man 
whom  I  had  visited  was  feeding  his  pigs  with  soap- 


312  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD.  " 

suds.  "Well,  sir,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "there  jest 
ain't  no  use  in  talkin' ;  soapsuds  hain't  no  'count  for 
hogs."  Now  there  was  a  farmer  who  had  some  intel- 
ligence. And  he  practiced  what  he  preached;  for  his 
pigs,  as  I  happen  to  know,  always  had  the  best  of  milk 
and  corn,  and  plenty  of  it. 

It  is  from  such  surroundings  that  some  of  the 
greatest  poets  and  writers  upon  Nature  have  sprung — 
Burns,  Jefferies,  Whitman,  Thoreau,  Flagg,  Burroughs 
— and  they  have  not  infrequently  remained  farmers. 
Our  great  statesmen  and  Presidents  have,  as  a  rule, 
been  brought  up  on  farms.  It  was  there  they  learned 
self-reliance  and  independence,  and  laid  the  foundation 
for  all  their  future  careers;  and  it  has  been  to  the 
country  that  they  have  returned  to  pass  their  declining 
years.  President  Arthur  is  the  one  notable  exception 
among  our  Presidents  of  one  who  was  born  and  bred 
in  the  city.  It  is  as  if,  in  the  old  myth  of  Antaeus,  a 
touch  of  Mother  Earth  adds  strength  to  character,  and 
furnishes  a  never-failing  source  of  vigor  and  manliness. 

The  farm  is  the  best  place  on  earth  in.  which  to 
bring  up  the  boy.  Mr.  Murat  Halstead,  whose  early 
years  were  passed  not  far  from  the  homestead,  has 
spoken  of  his  final  relinquishment  of  the  life  of  a  farm 
boy,  even  though  journalism  brought  greater  success, 
with  genuine  feeling: 

"I  have  never  since  walked  between  plow  handles,  the 
more  's  the  pit}',  it  sometimes  seems,  for  the  nlow  carves  a  path 
of  independence  that  should  be  more  highly  considered  than 
it  is  as  a  walk  of  life." 

Cobbett's  "Rural  Rides"  reveal  the  unmistakable 
charm   of  the   outdoors  to   one  whose  life  was   spent 


NATURE  AND  THE  CITY.  313 

largely  in  cities.  Yet  Cobbett  lived  when  young  in 
the  country;  and  that  is  the  only  way,  after  all,  to  learn 
to  love  Nature — to  become  familiar  with  her  in  one's 
childhood.  "Youth  is  the  only  season  for  enjoyment," 
says  George  Borrow  (that  genuine  lover  of  the  coun- 
try), in  "The  Romany  Rye,"  "and  the  first  twenty-five 
years  of  one's  life  are  worth  all  the  rest  of  the  longest 
life  of  man."  Do  you  remember  how  Jefferies,  when 
forced  to  live  in  London,  longed  for  the  country?  A 
recent  American  writer,  too,  Mr.  Charles  M.  Skinner, 
in  his  "Nature  in  a  City  Yard,"  laments  that  he  is 
forced  to  live  in  the  city.  "I  would  live  in  the  coun- 
try," he  says,  "but  I  am  compelled  to  live  in  the  city." 

The  great  men  of  the  world  have,  with  but  rare 
exceptions,  always  loved  the  country.  Most  of  the 
permanent  and  beautiful  literature  in  every  language 
is  upon  Nature  and  the  country  life.  These  are  the 
masterpieces  that  live.  The  Bible  is  full  of  outdoors; 
Homer  and  Virgil  would  be  nothing  but  a  babble 
about  the  gods  were  it  noif  for  their  perennial  inspira- 
tion from  the  things  of  earth  and  sky  (and  these,  the 
phenomena  of  creation,  change  not,  nor  our  poetic  ap- 
preciation of  them,  in  all  the  centuries)  ;  Dante  is 
nearly  as  replete  with  natural  comparisons  as  are  the 
Greeks  and  Romans;  Shakespeare  uses  Nature  as  a 
background  for  his  human  drama. 

Do  you  recollect  this  saying  in  the  recently  discov- 
ered "Logia"  of  Jesus? 

"Raise  the  stone  and  there  thou  shalt  find  Me;  cleave  the 
wood  and  there  I  am." 

Well,  the  man  of  the  cities  has  never  felt  that,  for 
he  has  never  known  that  particular  phase  of  life. 


314  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

Every  experience  in  Nature  is  worth  something. 
I  like  to  observe  the  methods  of  Nature,  and  to  follow 
them  in  my  farming.  Nature  is  a  great  teacher.  She 
invites  us  to  her  complicity,  to  be  in  league  with  her. 
If  we  take  an  exotic  and  bring  it  to  our  country,  we 
shall  have  to  study  artificial  surroundings  for  it,  and 
not  leave  it  to  the  ways  of  Nature  here ;  but  in  the  case 
of  native  plants  and  trees  we  shall  find  it  best  to  leave 
them  to  Nature's  keeping,  or  at  least  to  prune  and 
protect  them  according  to  Nature's  evident  intentions. 
It  is  from  Nature  that  we  learn  to  mulch  our  shrubs 
and  berries,  and  the  value  of  leaf  litter  for  soil  enrich- 
ment; for  the  wind  blows  the  falling  leaves  of  autumn 
everywhither,  till  they  lodge  about  the  thorns  or  the 
lower  network  of  the  shrub,  caught  by  design  in  the 
thicket  for  its  wintry  protection,  or  are  left  to  strew 
the  forest  floor  for  future  generations,  or  to  stray  to 
the  outlying  fields  beyond. 

I  can  not  sympathize  with  that  view  of  life  which 
would  sell  the  old  homesteads  or  see  old  landmarks 
brought  low.  It  is  only  the  materialistic  spirit  which 
will  drive  surveyors'  stakes  through  a  woods.  The 
country  is  God's  home.  Why  not  ours?  Yet  men,  in 
their  impertinence,  must  needs  have  luxurious  living; 
and  exist,  as  it  were,  apart  from  Nature,  separate  from 
it,  not  enjoying  it.  But  the  old  nomadic  life  is  the 
most  natural,  after  all,  like  the  gypsies',  with  the  stars 
above  and  a  bed  of  greensward.  I  envied  that  gypsy 
queen  I  read  of  who  had  never  yet  slept  under  a  roof, 
and  who  said  she  would  feel  unnatural  and  smothered 
to  be  deprived  of  the  sight  of  the  stars  from  her  pillow. 
Hosea,    the   Hebrew   prophet,    gave   a   picture    of  the 


NATURE  AND  THE  CITY.  315 

effects  of  too  great  ease  upon  the  men  of  his  gener- 
ation. 

The  mediaeval  ideal  still  lingers  amongst  us.  We 
are  afraid  of  Nature.  I  suppose  there  are  still  people 
who  would  not  care  to  study  the  trees  and  flowers 
except  conventionally,  in  a  city  park,  and  who  certainly 
would  not  remain  long  in  a  woods  for  fear  of  some 
intangible  sort  of  lurking  danger.  But  there  is  noth- 
ing to  be  afraid  of  in  Nature.  The  ordinary  snake  is 
as  much  afraid  of  you  as  you  are  of  him.  Yet  many 
city  people  seem  to  have  really  a  shrinking  fear  of 
Nature  and  the  country.  I  have  seen  little  boys  cry 
in  terror  when  taken  away  from  the  road  on  a  stroll 
to  the  fields  or  woods.  A  friend  of  mine,  quite  an 
intelligent  man  upon  other  matters,  was  openly  much 
disgusted  when  I  told  him  one  day  that  I  was  going  to 
the  country  with  a  book,  and  that  I  liked  to  lie  among 
the  grasses  and  read  there  and  think,  and  sometimes 
slept  beneath  the  trees.  "Why,"  said  he,  "you  're 
crazy;  you  '11  get  bugs  and  worms  in  your  ears."  Yet 
none  ever  bothered  me,  but  were  rather,  what  few  there 
were  of  them,  a  very  interesting  study  in  their  curious, 
beautifully  colored  forms  and  evident  intelligence;  and 
those  that  by  mishap  did  crawl  upon  me  scuttled  off  in 
short  order  when  they  found  where  they  were. 

But,  of  course,  to  be  in  the  woods  much  is  to  ap- 
preciate wild  life  all  the  more.  Then  the  whole  world 
of  Nature  seems  thoroughly  remote  from  man's  do- 
minion. And  everything  in  Nature  is  wild.  Even  the 
little  weed  that  grows  up  between  the  planks  of  the 
city  street  is  wild,  distinct,  different  from  the  city,  so 
separate  in  its  life  from  man's  life,  so  suggestive  of  the 


3l6  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

woods  and  fields  and  the  far-away  forest  life,  whence 
It  sprang. 

What  is  a  city?  A  city  Is  an  assemblage  of  houses 
close  together,  with  bad  air  in  between  them  and  similar 
lives  Inside  of  them,  I  ought  perhaps  to  add  that  the 
lives  are  not  always  so  bad  as  the  air.  But  here  is 
nothing  but  rows  of  brick  houses,  dirty  children  play- 
ing in  dirty  streets,  dust,  smoke,  grime,  soot.  Where 
are  the  flowers,  and  where  Is  the  grass?  As  I  have 
gone  down  Into  the  city  from  the  hills  on  foggy  morn- 
ings. It  has  seemed  as  if  I  were  entering  into  the  very 
darkness  of  Dante's  "Inferno" — down,  down! — smoke, 
smoke  everywhere;  dense  Indistinctness;  the  horrible 
smells  of  slaughter-house  and  brewery;  vapors  of  what 
not  Issuing  from  every  alley;  lights  seen  dimly  glimmer- 
ing through  the  murky  atmosphere;  cries  and  noise 
and  the  rumbling  sound  of  Innumerable  wheels — surely, 
this  is  a  part  of  Hades ! 

What  a  picture,  that  of  a  city.  In  Carlyle's  "Sartor 
Resartus!"  Teufelsdrockh  Is  speaking,  viewing  from 
his  watch-tower  the  great  community  about  him: 

"I  look  down  into  all  that  wasp-nest  or  bee-hive,  and 
witness  their  wax-laying  and  honey-making,  and  poison-brew- 
ing, and  choking  by  sulphur.  .  .  .  That  living  flood,  pour- 
ing through  these  streets,  of  all  qualities  and  ages,  knowest 
thou  whence  it  is  coming,  whither  it  is  going?  .  .  .  These 
fringes  of  lamp-light,  struggling  up  through  smoke  and  thou- 
sand-fold exhalation,  some  fathoms  into  the  ancient  reign  of 
Night,  what  thinks  Bootes  of  them,  as  he  leads  his  Hunting 
Dogs  over  the  Zenith,  in  their  leash  of  sidereal  fire?  That 
stifled  hum  of  Midnight,  when  Traffic  has  lain  down  to  rest; 


a: 
w 

o 

> 


NATURE  AND  THE  CITY.  319 

and  the  chariot-wheels  of  Vanity,  still  rolling  here  and  there 
through  distant  streets,  are  bearing  her  to  Halls  roofed  in 
and  lighted  to  the  due  pitch  for  her;  and  only  Vice  and  Misery 
are  abroad :  that  hum,  I  say,  like  the  stertorous,  unquiet  slumber 
of  sick  Life,  is  heard  in  Heaven.  Oh,  under  that  hideous 
coverlet  of  vapors,  and  putrefactions,  and  unimaginable  gases, 
what  a  Fermenting-vat  lies  simmering  and  hid!  The  joyful 
and  the  sorrowful  are  there;  men  are  dying  there,  men  are 
being  born :  men  are  praying, — on  the  other  side  of  a  brick 
partition,  men  are  cursing;  and  around  them  all  is  the  vast, 
void  Night." 

Readers  of  Richard  Jefferies  will  remember  the 
terrible  experience  that  Felix  underwent  in  his  unin- 
tended journey  toward  the  Imaginary  extinct  city  of 
London;  how  he  found  that  all  life  had  disappeared 
in  the  limits  of  Its  site,  that  gloom  and  dense  vapor 
surrounded  everything,  that  the  atmosphere  suffocated 
with  its  loathsome  gases  whatever  living  creature  might 
helplessly  stray  thither,  that  the  stars  could  not  be  seen 
because  of  the  lurid,  Impenetrable  canopy  of  smoke; 
and  the  joy,  too,  with  which,  after  his  canoe  had 
drifted  onward  and  through  and  past  the  miasma,  he 
awoke  from  his  stupor,  powerless  and  tottering  from 
the  effects  of  the  stagnation,  and  heard  a  thrush,  and 
Fistened  to  the  moorhens  and  whitethroats  again,  and 
watched  the  swallows  tracing  their  beautiful  curves  In 
the  pure  air,  and  at  last  once  more  lay  stretched  upon 
the  grass.  Well,  Is  that  not  an  allegory  of  the  influ- 
ence of  the  city  upon  the  natural  life  of  man?  The 
story  of  "After  London"  Is  perhaps  not  so  imaginative, 
after  all,  but  is  rather  the  symbolic  presentation  of  a  pro- 


31 


320      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

found  spiritual  truth.  The  city  is  indeed  a  great  dismal 
miasma.  Fear,  distrust,  disease,  evil,  pride — these,  and 
many  things  more,  alas!  I  find  in  the  country;  but  I 
do  not  find  them  so  intense,  or  so  evident,  or  so  plenti- 
fully abundant,  or  so  openly  pleasurable,  as  in  the  city. 
Pale,  sallow  complexions,  bad  food,  physical  languish- 
ment,  spiritual  stagnation, — fresh  skin,  with  a  peach 
bloom  to  it,  pure  food,  health,  and  a  free,  clear  life 
of  the  soul : — look  upon  this  picture,  and  then  on  this ! 
Ah,  Whittier  was  right  when  he  sang: 

"Blessings  on  thee,   little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheeks  of  tan ! 


Outward  sunshine,  inward  joj'; 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy!" 


Why  is  it  that  people  will  congregate  into  such  tre- 
mendous settlements  as  some  of  our  cities  are?  The 
whirl  of  the  world  and  the  energy  of  our  American 
life  have  made  our  cities  absolute  hydras  of  society. 
I  think  of  Bryant's  phrase — "the  vast  and  helpless 
city."  To  many  city  people  the  word  country  is  a 
symbol  for  the  wild  and  desolate,  the  unhuman,  every- 
thing that  is  devoid  of  sympathetic  companionship; 
and  so  men  gather  into  cities,  for  the  satisfaction  of  an 
increased  social  life  and  the  nearness  of  human  kind. 
Yet  Thoreau  was  perhaps  right  in  his  cynicism  upon 
the  shallowness  of  much  of  it.  "What  men  call  social 
virtues,  good  fellowship,"  he  says,  "is  commonly  noth- 
ing but  the  virtue  of  pigs  in  a  litter  to  keep  each  other 
warm."  And  the  Duke  was  also  right,  when  he  said, 
of  the  country,  in  "As  You  Like  It:" 


NATURE  AND  THE  CITY.  32 1 

"And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything." 

One  can  not  say  the  same  for  the  city.  The  beautiful 
influences  of  Nature  are  to  be  received  quite  "far  from 
the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife." 

What  a  fine  thing  it  is  to  have  violets  around  you 
at  your  work !  Was  it  William  Morris  who  said  that 
it  was  a  sad  contrast  between  the  fields  where  the  beasts 
live  and  the  cities  where  men  live?  Cowper,  indeed, 
spoke  the  truth,  in  his  well-known  line: 

"God  made  the  countrj',  and  man  made  the  town." 

I  can  sympathize  with  Christ  when  He  wept  over 
Jerusalem;  but  I  can  not  follow  Him  into  the  city. 
It  is  not  for  every  one  to  follow  Him  into  the  city. 
Some  there  are  whose  greatest  joy  and  service  is  to  live 
among  the  slums,  and  there  to  show  forth  the  life  of 
Nazareth.  I  will  rather  live  apart,  outside  the  limits, 
that  so  by  telling  of  the  sky  and  the  green  grass  and 
the  trees  I  may  perhaps  bring  the  vision  home  to  those 
who  see  it  not. 

There  are,  of  course,  advantages  which  one  finds 
in  a  city  and  not  in  the  country;  but  it  is  not  because 
it  is  the  city  that  one  finds  them  in.  There  is  no  reason 
why  there  should  not  be  in  the  country  all  the  advan- 
tages that  cities  have,  and  more.  Most  country  people 
look  upon  cities  as  a  veritable  Mecca  of  all  that  is  de- 
sirable, an  El  Dorado  of  gigantic  proportions,  in  which 
one  is  caught  into  the  whirl  of  all  the  social  and  intel- 
lectual life  of  the  world.  Yet  good  schools  abound 
outside  the  cities  nowadays,  and  it  is  possible  to  have 


322  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

art  in  the  country,  and  music,  and  the  literature  which 
is  the  boast  of  cities,  and  to  live,  moreover,  surrounded 
with  all  the  perpetual  beauty  of  sky  and  earth,  with 
pure  air  and  pure  food  and  sweet,  clear  water,  with 
opportunities  for  refreshing  labor  and  for  companion- 
ship with  the  animals  and  with  all  the  life  of  God's 
world.  Art  museums  might  just  as  well  flourish  out 
in  the  open  air,  amid  the  scenes  which  inspired  their 
paintings,  as  in  the  smoke  of  factories;  and  culture 
ought  no  less  to  be  advocated  and  pursued  in  the  fields 
than  in  the  paved  streets.  Indeed,  the  pictures  in  the 
galleries  do  but  afford  a  glimpse  of  that  which  lies 
on  every  hand  beyond  their  walls.  The  dangers  of  life 
in  the  country  lie  in  the  sordidness  which  is  found  in 
many  farmers,  and  which  absence  from  the  refining 
social  influences  of  the  city  encourages.  Then,  too, 
when  farming  becomes  too  absorbingly  a  business  its 
poetry  is  lost.  But  its  decided  advantages  are  the  inde- 
pendence and  self-reliance  it  develops;  and  he  would  be 
a  thick-skinned  fellow  who  did  not  see  some  poetry  in 
his  fields  of  wheat.  And  the  power  to  do  good,  too, 
lies  with  the  countryman ;  for  were  it  not  for  the  farmer 
men  could  not  live.  Yet  women  especially  (and  not 
altogether  without  reason,  as  many  farms  are  man- 
aged) regard  life  in  the  country,  on  a  farm,  as  they 
would  life-imprisonment,  as  an  existence  absolutely  de- 
void of  any  pleasure,  or  beauty,  or  society — nothing 
but  a  routine  of  perpetual  drudgery :  anything  but  that, 
they  say.  Yet  are  the  social  advantages  of  cities  so 
absorbing  as  all  that?  Could  not  a  little  mite  of  them 
be  introduced  Into  the  country?  Many  women  there 
be  after  the  order  of  Mrs.  Hardcastle,  in  "She  Stoops 


NATURE  AND  THE  CTIT.  323 

to  Conquer,"  who  says  to  Hastings,  in  reply  to  his 
flattery : 

"We  countrj-  persons  can  have  no  manner  at  all.  I  'm  in 
love  with  the  town,  and  that  serves  to  raise  me  above  some  of 
pur  neighboring  rustics." 

Yet  is  there  not  a  charm  in  an  informal  gathering 
in  the  country,  where  old  songs  are  sung,  and  old  poems 
read,  and  anecdotes  brought  forward  of  old  times  and 
former  days,  with  a  taste,  perchance,  of  honey  or  of 
cider,  which  one  will  seek  for  in  vain  in  the  city? 
When  Mrs.  Hardcastle  objects  to  her  old-fashioned 
mansion  and  her  husband's  predilections  for  old  stories, 
and  says  that  she  hates  such  trumpery,  Mr.  Hardcastle 
doughtily  replies,  and  well : 

"And  I  love  it.  I  love  everything  that 's  old :  old  friends, 
old  times,  old  manners,  old  books,  old  wine;  and,  I  believe, 
Dorothy  {taking  her  hand),  you  '11  own,  I  'v«  been  pretty  fond 
of  an  old  wife." 

One  of  the  most  refined  and  cultivated,  and  yet 
hardest  working,  women  I  have  known,  and  one  who 
has  liv^ed  in  a  city,  once  said  to  me :  "When  I  see  the 
life  in  the  cities,  I  am  always  thankful  that  I  have  had 
the  opportunity  to  bring  my  children  up  in  the  coun- 
try." It  was  the  wish  of  the  poet  Coleridge  that  his 
boy  Hartley  should  be  "Nature's  playmate,"  and  he 
so  expresses  this  desire  in  his  "Frost  at  Midnight,"  in 
these  lines;  and  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  know  that,  with 
all  his  weaknesses.  Hartley  retained  a  love  for  Nature 
all  his  life: 


324  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

"My  babe  so  beautiful !  it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee, 
And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore 
And  in  far  other  scenes !     For  I  was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim, 
And  saw  naught  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 
But  thou,  my  babe !  shalt  wander  like  a  breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountains,  and  beneath  the  clouds. 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores 
And  mountain  crags.    So  shalt  thou  see  and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher!  he  shall  mold 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask.' 

Things  that  are  really  quite  expensive  luxuries  in  the 
city — genuine,  rich  cream,  for  example — are  commonly 
ev^ery-day  affairs  in  the  country.  Any  one  who  has 
eaten  strawberries  from  a  cut-glass  dish  in  the  city, 
even  with  the  best  of  cream,  and  then  at  another  time 
has  plucked  them  himself  from  the  vines,  fresh  and 
sweet  and  juicy,  and  had  the  cream  and  sugar  of  the 
country  with  them,  will  not  hesitate  to  say  which  is  the 
more  delightful,  which  the  more  natural  to  the  taste. 
Even  in  a  railroad  dining  car,  when  skimming  across 
the  country  meadows,  I  have  eaten  corn  on  the  cob 
which,  notwithstanding  its  silver  handles,  many  a 
farmer  would  have  been  ashamed  to  have  on  his  table, 
much  less  to  offer  to  a  guest. 

What  a  long  succession  of  pleasurable  delicacies 
is  to  be  had  in  the  country  throughout  the  year:  begin- 
ning with  maple  syrup  and  sugar,  then  the  garden  and 
the  early  strawberries  and  raspberries,  wild  blackberries, 


NATURE  AND  THE  CITY.  325 

cherries,  peaches,  apricots,  the  early  apples,  plums, 
pears,  the  fall  and  winter  apples — and  all  still  lapping 
over  from  one  season  to  another,  the  maple  syrup  often 
doing  duty  even  in  winter,  a  year  from  its  making, 
along  with  the  berries  of  last  summer  and  the  apples 
of  the  fall.  There  have  been  known  such  prosperous 
years  on  the  old  homestead  that  the  old  promise  to 
Israel  seemed  to  have  been  fulfilled  especially  for  us, 
that  the  "threshing  shall  reach  into  the  vintage,  and 
the  vintage  shall  reach  into  the  sowing  time."  On 
those  memorable,  happy  years,  the  last  run  of  the  sap 
at  sugar-making  would  lap  over  on  to  the  spring  plow- 
ing and  the  pruning,  the  early  vegetables  would  still 
be  palatable  when  the  later  garden  was  well  under  way, 
haying  and  harvest  would  extend  until  the  apples  were 
ripe,  threshing  would  occupy  us  up  to  cider-making, 
and  the  corn  husking  and  hauling  in  of  the  winter 
wood  and  the  other  fall  work  would  keep  us  busy  until 
the  hogs  were  fattened — and  by  that  time  the  sap  was 
in  the  trees  again  and  the  camp  opened.  But  they  have 
not  all  been  such  years ;  for  sometimes  the  sugar  season 
was  a  short  one,  frost  nipped  the  fruit  buds,  rain  spoiled 
the  hay  and  flattened  the  grain,  worms  and  insects  got 
in  the  garden  patch,  wasps  stung  the  grapes,  and  some- 
how the  winter  wood  was  water-soaked  and  doty. 

In  many  city  yards,  cut  up  for  a  subdivision,  last 
remnants  of  the  country  still  linger  where  not  dis- 
turbed. An  occasional  stray  violet  may  yet  stay  to 
bloom  by  the  wayside,  golden-rod  and  iron  weed  shake 
their  tassels  in  a  fence-corner,  or  a  clump  of  elderberry 
bushes  hold  aloft  their  glistening  cymes  of  jet  black 
berries.    But,  when  pent-up  perforce  for  a  time  between 


326      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

brick  rows  and  asphalt,  my  heart  has  always  longed  for 
a  sight  of  God's  meadows  and  the  open  sunshine  among 
the  grass. 

My  instincts  for  wild  life  are  so  strong  that  had 
I  been  a  primitive  man  I  imagine  I  would  have  helped 
the  race  along  considerably.  I  like  to  walk  through 
the  parks  whenever  I  am  in  cities,  for  the  waving  of  the 
trees'  leafy  branches  in  the  breeze  brings  thoughts  of 
the  wide,  sweet  freedom  of  the  country  beyond.  Espe- 
cially is  the  dark  mystery  of  trees  to  be  felt  in  a  city 
in  the  gloom  of  night,  even  though  the  trees  are  sur- 
rounded by  wire  railings  and  their  poor  roots  suffocated 
under  hot  pavements. 

"But  this  you  may  know,  that  as  long  as  they  grow, 
Whatever  change  may  be, 
You  never  can  teach  either  oak  or  beech 
To  be  aught  but  a  greenwood  tree." 

There  is  much  truth  to  those  lines  of  Peacock's.  There 
is  always  a  little  of  primitive,  natural  grace,  with  a 
smack  of  pure  wildness  to  it,  still  to  be  seen,  even  in 
city  parks.  Such  experiences  as  this  in  Shelley's  "Epi- 
psychidion"  are  perhaps  not  common  now  to  dwellers  in 
cities,  but  are  none  the  less  enviable : 

"The  spotted  deer  bask  in  the  fresh  moon-light 
Before  our  gate,  and  the  slow,  silent  night 
Is  measured  by  the  pants  of  their  calm  sleep." 

Lines  like  these,  we  say,  thrill  us  in  the  reading,  and 
we  lament  the  departure  of  the  old  wild  forest  life. 
But,  happily,  if  we  seek  it,  something  of  that  fresh  life 
of  Nature  can  yet  be  seen  in  the  busy  cities,  atrophied 
and  bloodless  as  life  is  there,  life  that  was  once  so  true 


NATURE  AND  THE  CITY.  327 

and  pure  in  the  youth  of  the  world,  and  that  still  is 
throbbing  and  swelling  with  the  old  savage  strain  be- 
neath. The  glimpse  of  a  gray  squirrel  in  a  park,  late 
on  some  afternoon,  frisking  and  leaping  among  the 
beeches,  even  though  he  be  tame  and  not  afraid  of  the 
hoof-beats  of  horses  and  the  rough  tramp  of  heels  on 
the  walks,  or  the  sight  of  the  first  birds  of  spring,  or 
to  hear  a  robin's  twilight  carol,  still  has  power  to  make 
the  heart  rise  in  wonder,  and  even  now,  as  Emerson 
sang  it, 

"Can  make  the  wild  blood  start 
In  its  mystic  springs." 

In  winter,  too,  the  snow  falls  on  the  city  streets  as  well 
as  on  the  fields,  and  in  spring  the  sweet  country  wild 
flowers  can  be  found  in  the  market  stalls  by  those  who 
wish  for  them. 

Yet  it  does  men  incalculable  spiritual  harm  to  re- 
main so  close  to  one  another  as  our  cities  demand.  Let 
us  at  least  walk  out  to  the  roadsides  and  the  woods 
occasionally,  and  refresh  and  purify  our  minds  in  the 
quietness  and  joy  of  the  beautiful  world.  While  down 
in  man's  crowded  dwelling-places  all  is  excitement  and 
intensity  and  unnaturally  forgetful,  out  in  the  open  the 
wind  is  tossing  the  tree-tops  and  sweeping  to  us  odors 
and  scents  of  green  meadows  and  quiet  wood-dingles, 
of  lake  and  river,  of  prairie  and  forest,  of  sea  and 
mountain,  and  of  the  broad  life  and  health  of  Nature 
everywhere.  Men  in  cities  should  listen  to  its  voice 
whispering  among  the  leaves.  It  brings  the  message 
of  peace  to  them. 

As  I  think  of  the  contrast  between  it  and  these  dis- 
tant green  upland  pastures,  quiet,  grazed  on  by  sheep, 


328      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

with  bells  tinkling,  the  city  seems  to  be  a  horrible  mael- 
strom. Why  is  it  that  men  should  live  thus,  aroused 
to  an  abnormal  energy,  and  enveloped  in  great  clouds 
of  smoke  and  dust?  Sometimes,  when  a  south  wind 
strikes  the  city,  there  comes  floating  out  across  the  hills 
what  appears  to  be  a  dark  fog.  It  is  the  smoke  from 
the  city.  Viewed  in  our  clear,  pure  air,  it  is  seen  in  its 
real  density  and  murky  blackness,  as  if  just  belched 
from  the  pit.  Yet  in  the  city  it  is  the  normal  atmos- 
phere which  men  breathe,  and  they  do  not  know  it. 
And  so  we  turn  from  the  sordid,  restless,  nervous  life 
of  the  great  city  to  the  calm  and  beautiful  quietness  of 
the  fields;  and  we  have  found  peace,  and  are  ashamed 
that   we    have   known   the   city. 

The  tinkling  of  sheep  bells,  the  bark  of  a  dog,  the 
neigh  of  a  horse,  the  moo  of  a  cow,  the  crowing  of 
old  chanticleer — why,  morning  in  the  country  is  the 
"Pastoral  Symphony"  in  dally  repetition.  Do  you  re- 
member how  the  sounds  of  the  country  are  so  pleasingly 
and  wonderfully  reproduced   in   that  piece   of  music? 

Give  me  the  country,  with  an  open  hearth,  and 
you  can  have  an  entire  city  in  exchange,  with  all  the 
intricate  and  over-studied  refinements  and  complexities 
In  it,  and  you  will  not  be  half  so  happy.  I  can,  here 
in  the  country,  before  an  open  wood  fire,  with  but  one 
or  two  utensils,  and  with  vegetables  and  fruit  fresh 
from  the  garden,  prepare  in  a  few  moments  a  meal  fit 
for  the  gods :  you,  at  your  hotel  or  luxurious  residence 
(and  surely  not  in  a  hovel),  will  not  have  one  a  whit 
better,  and  you  will  have  paid  a  dozen  prices  for  it, 
and  the  china  and  the  service  will  have  cost  you  no 
little.      Men  go  to  the   cities  to  escape  the   so-called 


NATURE  AND  THE  CITY. 


329 


drudgery  of  living;  but  behold!  they  find  themselves 
enmeshed  in  a  much  greater  entanglement  than  they 
had  suspected,  and  some  get  still  further  ensnared  into 
failure.  They  miss  the  very  freedom  and  relief  which 
they  had  hoped  to  find,  and  end  by  losing  what  fine  old 
natural  instincts  they  had,  so  that  their  last  state  is 
much  worse  than  the  first.  Men  pay  pretty  dearly  for 
their  refinements,  in  the  loss  of  that  for  which,  after 
all,  the  refinements  are,  and  can  be,  no  substitute.  And 
so,  because  of  the  limitations  of  each  kind  of  life,  we 
have  the  strange  spectacle  of  country  people  aping  the 
ways  of  city  people,  and  losing  the  very  simplicity  they 
were  supposed  to  have,  and  city  people  constantly  re- 
verting to  the  country  to  find  it.  'T  is  the  old  story  of 
Maud  Muller  and  the  Judge  which  is  daily  enacted 
before  our  eyes. 

I  do  not  say  what  is  the  remedy  for  all  this.  Each 
one  of  us  most  solve  that  for  himself.  We  are  not 
necessarily  clumsy  ignoramuses  because  we  live  in  the 
country,  nor  are  we  all  conventionalized  hypocrites 
whose  lot  has  fallen  in  the  city.  But  decentralization, 
and  the  gradual  increase  of  a  semi-rural  population, 
made  possible  by  the  introduction  of  the  trolley  car, 
with  its  cheap  fares,  must  by  every  one  be  regarded  as  a 
force  for  good,  and  for  good  only. 

Yet  I  would  voluntarily  narrow  my  life  if  I  might 
only  know  more  of  Nature.  T  can  not  tell  you  with 
what  feelings  I  regard  Nature,  I  regard  her  so  sacredly. 
I  wish  that  others  could  enter  into  my  life,  and  see 
the  beauty.  T  would  share  the  loveliness  of  the  earth. 
It  is  not  mine  only,  but  all  may  see  it,  if  they  enter 
the  fields  with  receptive  mind  and  heart,  equally  with 


330  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

the  open  air.  And  all  Is  so  exquisite  in  workmanship, 
so  wonderful  in  its  growth,  so  beautiful  in  its  drapery! 
Surely  here  in  the  stillness  God  is,  if  He  is  anywhere 
on  earth.  Men  can  not  understand  the  miracles  of 
Christ,  they  say,  and  yet  are  they  dead  to  the  constantly 
recurring  miracles  of  sunrise  and  sunset,  and  spring 
and  autumn,  and  the  growth  of  the  year;  but  then,  that 
is  every  day,  and  they  do  not  see  the  miracle.  There 
is  so  much  variety  in  Nature,  so  much  profusion  of 
beautiful  scenery — grand  contours  of  mountain  wild- 
ness,  illimitable  extent  of  prairie,  long,  winding  sea 
coasts,  quiet  slopes  and  dells,  stretches  of  peaceful 
woodland: — carpeted  with  flowers  and  grasses,  covered 
with  towering  trees  of  living  green,  an  endless  harmony 
of  color,  with  the  blue  sky  above,  fleecy  clouds,  the 
broad  light  of  day,  and  the  majesty  and  silence  of  night 
and  the  dew !     What  can  we  say? 

Thus  to  be  surrounded  with  all  the  influences  of 
Nature,  the  fresh  wild  flowers  in  spring,  the  great  blue 
sky  in  summer,  the  turning  leaves  in  autumn,  and  in 
winter  the  snow;  to  live  in  daily  communion  with  the 
growing  earth;  to  see  the  seasons  change;  and  to  be 
in  constant  response  to  the  beauty  and  miracle  of  wild 
Nature: — if  there  is  anything  more  to  be  desired  in  life 
than  this  I  do  not  know  it.  Just  the  joy  of  living  in 
the  open  air — that  is  enough  in  life. 

Mr.  Norman  Gale  has  written  a  prayer,  to  be 
found  in  his  "Orchard  Songs,"  which,  in  its  aspiration, 
exhales  the  very  breath  from  the  grass  and  the  dew. 
Doubtless  it  languages  the  attitude  of  every  lover  of 
the  country: 


NATURE  AND  THE  CITY.  331 

"Tend  me  my  birds,  and  bring  again 
The  brotherhood  of  woodland  life, 
So  shall  I  wear  the  seasons  round, 
A  friend  to  need,  a  foe  to  strife. 

"Keep  me  my  heritage  of  lawn. 
And  grant  me,  Father,  till  I  die, 
The  fine  sincerity  of  light 
And  luxury  of  open  sky. 

"So,  learning  always,  may  I  find 

My  heaven  around  me  everywhere. 
And  go  in  hope  from  this  to  Thee, 
The  pupil  of  Thy  country  air." 

It  was  the  fond  belief  of  Richard  Jefferies  that 
some  day  Nature  should  have  perpetual,  constant  in- 
fluence upon  the  life  of  man,  that  man's  life  should 
always  be  becoming  like  Nature's.  The  sooner  men 
learn  to  love  the  simplicities  of  the  country  the  healthier 
will  their  own  lives  become,  and  the  better  and  more 
wholesome  influence,  therefore,  will  they  themselves 
have  in  the  world.  In  turning  from  the  distraction  of 
a  life  of  artificial  stimulus  to  the  revelation  of  the  fields, 
what  do  we  find,  says  Jefferies?  "To  be  beautiful  and 
to  be  calm,  without  mental  fear,  is  the  ideal  of 
Nature." 

So,  in  the  city,  I  live  over  again  the  old  life  of  the 
fields,  wandering  among  the  pastures,  and  by  the  side 
of  clear,  rippling  brooks,  and  under  the  beeches.  And 
in  the  dust  and  rumble  and  whirl  of  the  city  I  can 
remember  the  ideals  of  life  that  I  found  out  there, 
among  the  mullein  stalks  and  sweet  green  grass,  and 
I  can  live  better  for  them,  and  can  try  to  have  Nature 
transformed  into  my  human  life.     Like  Jefferies,  I  may 


332 


AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


never  realize  the  ideal  that  I   found  there;  but  I  can 
approach  it,  and  I  can  tell  others  that  it  is  there. 

It  is  as   David,   the  psalmist   of   Israel,   sang  cen- 
turies ago: 

"Yea,  the  sparrow  hath  found  an  house,  and  the  swallow 
a  nest  for  herself,  where  she  may  lay  her  young,  even  thine 
altars,  O  Lord  of  hosts." 

And  from  those  altars  rises  under  the  sun  the  incense 
of  the  flowers  and  fields  into  the  beautiful  blue. 

"THE   LORD   IS  IN    HIS   HOLY  TEMPLE; 
LET   ALL  THE   EARTH    KEEP    SILENCE   BEFORE    HIM." 


UNDER  THE   BLUE. 


NATURE  AND  THE  PROBLEM  OF 
SUFFERING. 

"Thou  see'st,  ■we  are  not  all  alone  unhappy; 
This    wide  and  universal  theater 
Presents  more  woeful  pagreants  than  the  scene 
Wherein  ■we  play  in." 

-As  You  Like  It. 

N  assuming  that  pain  is  an  evidence  of  evil 
which,  while  in  a  less  degree  it  is  forced 
to  serve  as  a  good,  yet  in  its  more  terrible 
aspects  attains  at  times  to  the  deeps  of 
unrelenting  tragedy,  I  am  taking  a  view 
which  is  not  uncommon  nor  irrational,  and 
which  will,  I  think,  be  acknowledged  as  a 
fact  in  life  by  every  one.  What  shall  we 
say  of  King  Lear,  if  tragedy  be  not  a  re- 
ality, but  only  a  disguise,  a  mask?  I  be- 
lieve that  evil  is  evil,  that  it  mars  life,  till  it 
is  not  as  it  should  be  or  was  meant  to  be,  that  it  is  not 
a  good,  and  can  not  be.  Nor  does  evil  come  merely 
from  the  fact  of  our  being  finite  beings.  Adam  and 
Eve  were  created  finite,  and  yet  were  supremely  happy 
in  the  Garden.  We  all  know  the  old  story  of  the 
clown  at  the  games,  who,  when  a  pigeon  was  pierced 
and  fell,  said,  "Ah,  you  might  have  spared  the  arrow ! 
The  fall  would  have  killed  him."  So,  to  say  that  pain 
serves  ultimately  to  bring  about  good  is  but  a  relative, 
a  partial  view;  we  might  have  had  the  good  without 

333 


A   PLUNDERED  NEST. 


334  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

the  pain.  For  not  all  pain  brings  with  it  joy,  nor  is  all 
joy  derived  from  pain.  The  thrusts  of  tragedy  are 
not  necessary  to  happiness. 

The  world,  that  is,  is  diseased,  and  its  natural  in- 
tentions perverted  and  distorted.  "The  time  is  out  of 
joint,"  as  Hamlet  said.  It  is  a  fact  which  does  not 
need  much  repetition  to  gain  acceptance.  The  apostle 
was  not  so  far  wrong  when  he  insisted  upon  our  de- 
pravity. Humanity  has  had  its  golden  age  in  the  past, 
and  looks  forward  to  another  golden  age  in  the  future. 
We  have  not  been  made  glad  that  sin  has  entered  into 
the  world.  We  might  have  lived  without  the  sin — 
else  why  the  vision  of  the  golden  age?  And  will  sin 
otherwise  always  be?  Explain  its  existence  as  we  may 
— perhaps  as  the  result,  as  the  philosophers  say,  of  our 
mutability,  that  is,  of  the  possibilities  and  contingencies 
incident  to  imperfection — the  sharp  accusation  yet  rests 
upon  the  universe  of  the  presence  of  evil  in  its  midst, 
with  all  its  concurrent  manifestations  of  moral  and 
physical  disorder  and  pain. 

The  problem  of  suffering  is  not  a  pleasant  one,  and 
the  acknowledgment  of  pain  among  the  lower  animals 
does  not  make  us  happy.  The  "weight  of  all  this  un- 
intelligible world"  is  assuredly  a  weary  burden.  Yet 
most  of  the  brutes  that  are  killed  by  man  die  an  easier 
death  and  are  really  more  humanely  killed  than  when 
they  die  naturally,  of  wounds,  or  starvation,  or  old 
age.  It  is  evidently  not  the  purpose  of  Nature  to 
avoid  pain.  When  Whitman,  In  one  of  his  rare  con- 
ceptions, addressed  the  sea  as  "the  passionless  wet"  he 
spoke  a  true  philosophy.  There  is  no  mercy  in  Nature. 
The   ocean   swallows   up   those   unfortunately  wrecked 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING.  335 

upon  Its  billows  without  distinction  and  Indiscrimi- 
nately; the  tornado  sweeps  away  with  no  exceptions 
all  that  happens  within  Its  path;  and  the  bursting  vol- 
cano destroys  whatever  city  lies  at  Its  base.  The  great 
Juggernaut  of  Nature  Is  uncompromisingly  cruel  and 
impartial.  Even  the  relief  and  soothing  of  uncon- 
sciousness, if  we  awake,  does  but  for  a  time  benumb  our 
sufferings,  and  comes  usually,  Indeed,  from  a  shock, 
and  only  as  a  greater  revelation  of  our  helplessness. 
Aye,  even  when  we  use  her  own-born  remedies,  't  is 
but  for  the  bruises  and  lacerations  of  her  own-caused 
misery.  Nature,  Indeed,  herself  is  forced  to  be  the 
main  Instrument  of  pain,  and  we  are  consequently  face 
to  face  with  the  paradox  on  all  sides  of  tragedy  exist- 
ing rampant  even  while  the  swallows  soar  the  sunset 
skies. 

Life  is  very  full  of  tragedies.  Pain  Is  not  so  ab- 
normal a  condition  In  Nature  (as  we  know  It)  as  we 
sometimes  think.  Turn  anywhither  we  will,  and  we 
are  everywhere  confronted  with  the  presence  and  power 
of  misery  and  disaster.  It  Is  the  lot  of  every  living 
being.  And  by  suffering  I  do  not  mean  mere  physical 
pain  ( for  some  there  be  who  would  deny  the  body,  and 
who  would  repudiate  even  the  testimony  of  the  senses), 
nor  mental  suffering  (if  so  be  there  Is  a  mind),  nor 
anguish  of  soul  (should  there  be  a  soul)  ;  but  I  mean 
pain  of  any  sort,  to  be  experienced  In  any  way  what- 
soever. If  you  have  no  body,  possibly  you  will  know 
pain  In  the  outlook  of  the  Imagination;  if  you  have  no 
mind  (as  is  quite  likely.  If  you  think  you  have  no 
body).  It  Is  possible  you  will  have  depression  of  soul; 
and  If  you  have  no  soul    (which  God   forbid!)    it  Is 


336      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

possible  that  you,  a  mere  beast,  will  then  have  to  com- 
plete the  circle  and  acknowledge  pain  again  in  the  body. 
But  whatever  you  have,  one  thing  is  certain,  that, 
sooner  or  later,  in  some  way  or  another,  "in  mind, 
body,  or  estate,"  as  the  Prayer  Book  says,  you  will 
have  to  encounter  pain  and  misery  in  life.  I  do  not 
think  that  we  should  try  to  minimize  or  evade  the  fact 
of  pain.  What  in  so  doing  do  we  gain  but  a  make- 
shift, in  itself  a  source  of  displeasure  in  our  perplexity? 
Comedy  itself  is  but  a  mask  for  tragedy. 

Life,  I  say,  is  full  of  tragedies.  Perhaps  that  is 
one  significance  of  Christ's  ministry,  that  tragedy  Is 
what  we  must  expect  upon  earth :  tragedies  not  only  in 
human  life — greater  and  consequently  capable  of  more 
suffering  than  any  other — but  in  the  animal  world,  with 
the  birds  and  beasts  and  fishes  and  all  animal  life,  and 
among  the  plants  also,  beautiful  expressions  of  plant 
life  crushed  or  their  growth  thwarted  by  the  survival 
of  stronger  neighbors.  Tragedy  is  an  ineradicable  part 
of  the  experience  of  living — not  falling  heavily  upon 
all  alike,  but,  in  greater  or  less  degree,  coming  to  all 
living  things  in  the  experience  of  heartless,  fateful  limi- 
tations. It  is  the  saddest  part  of  life,  sadder  even  than 
unnecessary  pain ;  for  from  such  pain  one  may  recover 
and  have  strength  again,  but  tragedy  is  permanent  loss 
and  failure.  Men  do  their  best,  they  say,  but  some- 
how circumstances  are  against  their  achievement;  and 
If  through  no  fault  of  theirs  they  fail,  and  yet  live 
courageously  and  bring  success  from  limitation,  the 
tragedy  but  becomes  the  darker.  There  has  thus  been 
no  profounder  disquisition  on  evil  than  Hamlet's  so- 
liloquy : 


/ 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING.  337 

"To  be,  or  not  to  be, — that  is  the  question: 
Whether  't  is  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles. 
And  by  opposing  end  them?     To  die, — to  sleep, — 
No  more;  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heartache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to, — 't  is  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.     To  die, — to  sleep, — 
To  sleep!  perchance  to  dream!  ay,  there's  the  rub; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil. 
Must  give  us  pause:  there's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life; 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely. 
The  pangs  of  dispriz'd  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  oflice,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  ?  who  would  fardels  bear, 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life. 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, 
The  undiscover'd  country  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveler   returns,   puzzles  the   will. 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of?" 

The  whole  of  life  thus  seems  to  be  Interpenetrated 
with  tragedy,  with  pain.  Man  can  not  escape  it:  and 
get  down  among  the  lower  animals,  live  with  them, 
and  be  among  them,  and  you  will  find  suffering  and 
misery  there  also.  Men  not  infrequently  cause  tragedy 
in  their  relations  with  the  rest  of  the  animate  world, 
sometimes  knowingly  and  purposely  and  remorselessly, 
and  sometimes  unwittingly  as  undesignedly  a  partner 
of  natural  law.  Tragedy  is  indeed  inwoven  into  our 
very  existence.     Whenever  we  mow  our  lawns  the  Jug- 


338      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

gernaut  of  the  lawn-mower  grinds  and  crushes  num- 
bers of  the  tiny  inhabitants  of  the  grass,  and  whenever 
we  cut  our  hay  or  harvest  our  grain  the  merciless  sickle 
slashes  and  tears  them  in  pieces.  It  is  one  of  the  in- 
evitable accompaniments  of  life,  even  though  we  wish 
it  not,  that  in  many  ways,  however  unconsciously  or 
unintentionally,  we  should  constantly  be  causing  pain. 
It  is  blinded  from  our  eyes,  and  we  do  not  see  it. 

Nature  is  cruel  and  merciless,  you  say.  Yes,  that 
is  true.  Pain  falls,  in  the  realms  of  Nature,  as  gener- 
ally upon  the  weak  and  defenseless  as  it  does  in  the 
case  of  mankind.  But  the  beautiful  and  refined  lady 
who  has  her  horses'  tails  docked  and  has  the  wings  of 
a  tern  in  her  hat — is  she  so  sweet?  Is  she  not  cruel 
also?  That  there  is  cruelty  in  Nature  is  true,  but 
cruelty  and  the  infliction  of  tragedy  are  not  more  absent 
from  the  life  of  intelligent  men  and  women. 

Yet  alas!  Nature  has  her  tragedies,  and  has  them 
relentlessly.  Even  the  mosquito  has  its  parasite.  The 
laws  of  Nature  are  very  inexorable;  she  is  no  respecter 
of  persons.  Every  man — aye,  every  living  being — 
receives  the  penalty  for  a  violation  of  them.  I  believe 
that  the  life  of  the  woods  is  happier  than  man's,  that 
there  are  an  unalloyed  gladness  and  a  freedom  from 
fear  which  man  generally  does  not  know;  but  I  be- 
lieve— indeed,  I  have  seen  it,  and  I  know — that,  with 
all  the  coy  shyness,  real  and  terrible  tragedy  is  there 
also.  It  is  especially  heartrending  to  witness  tragedy 
among  animals  that  are  particularly  attractive  and  win- 
some, those  that  we  love.  I  think  of  Shakespeare's 
fine  old  line, 

"Like  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune,   and  harsh;" 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING.      339 

and  't  is  appropriate  in  the  case  of  animals  as  with  men, 
when  misery  and  inequality  come  to  them. 

It  is  not  a  pleasant  picture  that  John  Fiske  gives, 
in  his  "Through  Nature  to  God,"  when,  in  his  discus- 
sion of  the  mystery  of  evil,  he  speaks  of  the  reality 
of  the  perpetual,  unintermittent  tragedy  and  rapine  that 
underlie  the  apparent  peacefulness  of  the  fields: 

"Any  summer  field,  though  mantled  in  softest  green,  is  the 
scene  of  butchery  as  wholesale  as  that  of  Neerwinden  and  far 
more  ruthless.  The  life  of  its  countless  tiny  denizens  is  one  of 
unceasing  toil,  of  crowding  and  jostling,  where  the  weaker  fall 
unpitied  by  the  way,  of  starvation  from  hunger  and  cold,  of 
robbery  utterly  shameless  and  murder  utterly  cruel.  That 
green  sward  in  taking  possession  of  its  territory  has  extermi- 
nated scores  of  flowering  plants  of  the  sort  that  human  eco- 
nomics and  aesthetics  stigmatize  as  weeds;  nor  do  the  blades 
of  the  victorious  army  dwell  side  by  side  in  amity,  but  in  their 
eagerness  to  dally  with  the  sunbeams  thrust  aside  and  supplant 
'one  another  without  the  smallest  compunction.  Of  the  crawl- 
ing insects  and  those  that  hum  through  the  air,  with  the  quaint 
snail,  the  burrowing  worm,  the  bloated  toad,  scarce  one  in  a 
hundred  but  succumbs  to  the  buffets  of  adverse  fortune  before 
it  has  achieved  maturity  and  left  offspring  to  replace  it.  The 
early  bird,  who  went  forth  in  quest  of  the  worm,  was  lucky 
if  at  the  close  of  a  day  as  full  of  strife  and  peril  as  ever  knight- 
errant  encountered,  he  did  not  himself  serve  as  meal  for  some 
giant  foe  in  the  gloaming.  When  we  think  of  the  hawk's 
talons  buried  in  the  breast  of  the  wren,  wh«le  the  relentless 
beak  tears  the  little  wings  from  the  quivering  body,  our  mood 
toward  Nature  is  changed,  and  we  feel  like  recoiling  from  a 
world  in  which  such  black  injustice,  such  savage  disregard 
for  others,  is  part  of  the  general  scheme." 


340      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

I  do  not  count  death  in  itself  as  the  greatest  of 
evils;  for  death,  as  a  necessary  part  of  the  life  that 
now  is,  and  not  a  calamity,  comes  rather  as  a  release, 
even  through  the  gateway  of  pain — surely  better  than 
perpetual  suffering — in  its  own  time.  And  the  various 
and  manifold  incitements  to  rapine  are,  too,  I  suppose, 
necessary  in  this  our  world — the  birds  devouring  the 
insects,  the  owl  clutching  the  little  wood  mouse,  the 
fox  killing  the  duck,  man  hunting  for  game.  It  is  a 
law  of  life  as  now  constituted  (I  do  not  say  that  it  is 
God's  law)  that  we  should  live  upon  even  our  best 
animal  friends.     So,  says  the  old  verse : 

"Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite, 
For  God  hath  made  them  so." 

Now  I  do  not  think  that  He  did.  Evil,  that  is,  to 
my  mind,  has  not  been  a  necessary,  but  a  possible, 
accompaniment  of  free  will.  It  did  not  (and  does  not) 
inhere  in  the  very  nature  of  things;  but,  having  once 
been  chosen,  its  effects  have  so  been  transmitted  into  all 
life  that  pain  everywhere  now  is  a  recognized  phase 
of  existence. 

But  to  particular  and  concrete  cases  of  tragedy  in 
the  fields.  Mr.  John  Burroughs  has  an  interesting 
paper,  entitled  "The  Tragedies  of  the  Nests,"  in  his' 
"Signs  and  Seasons,"  in  which  he  gives  several  ex- 
amples of  the  struggle  for  existence  which  the  young 
birds  have  to  go  through,  and  the  necessity  for  constant 
watchfulness  on  the  part  of  the  old  birds  against  their 
prowling  or  hooting  enemies.  Mrs.  Olive  Thorne 
Miller  and  other  writers  on  birds  have  also  spoken  of 
the    tragedies    that    frequently    interrupt    the    peaceful 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING.      341 

progress  of  their  nesting.  I  shall  transcribe  a  few 
sentences  from  Mr.  Burroughs's  paper : 

"The  tender  households  of  the  birds  are  not  only  exposed 
to  hostile  Indians  in  the  shape  of  cats  and  collectors,  but  to 
numerous  murderous  and  bloodthirsty  animals,  against  whom 
they  have  no  defense  but  concealment.  They  lead  the  darkest 
kind  of  pioneer  life,  even  in  our  gardens  and  orchards,  and 
under  the  walls  of  our  houses.  Not  a  day  or  a  night  passes, 
from  the  time  the  eggs  are  laid  till  the  young  are  flown,  when 
the  chances  are  not  greatly  in  favor  of  the  nest  being  rifled 
and  its  contents  devoured — by  owls,  skunks,  minks,  and  'coons 
at  night,  and  by  crows,  jays,  squirrels,  weasels,  snakes,  and 
rats  during  the  day.  Infancy,  we  say,  is  hedged  about  by 
many  perils;  but  the  infancy  of  birds  is  cradled  and  pillowed 
in  peril." 

He  tells  also  of  the  frequent  rifling  of  orioles'  and 
other  birds'  nests,  of  the  occasional  death  of  both  the 
old  and  young  birds  by  accidental  causes  (such  as  en- 
tanglement in  the  hairs  of  their  nests),  and  of  the 
maraudings  of  their  many  destroyers. 

His  paper  has  recalled  a  few  Instances  of  tragedy 
in  bird  life  that  have  come  under  my  own  observation. 

One  day,  while  clearing  out  a  thicket,  so  that  the 
larger  trees  would  have  more  light  and  space,  and  could 
grow  better,  we  cut  down  a  maple  sapling,  and,  as  it 
fell,  two  eggs  splashed  out  on  the  ground  beside  us. 
We  found  that  we  had  unwittingly,  but  none  the  less 
absolutely,  destroyed  a  little  bird's  nest  which  had  been 
concealed  among  the  thick  foliage.  We  had  not  seen 
it,  although  we  had  noticed  a  bird  or  two  around  there; 
but  there  it  was,  all  torn  and  bedraggled,  and  frag- 
ments of  the  speckled  egg-shells  lay  scattered  about  it. 


342  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  little  pair,  when  they  came  and 
found  their  home  ruined  and  desolate.  At  first  their 
attitude  was  one  of  alarm  and  even  wild  anxiety.  They 
fluttered  from  limb  to  limb  in  the  trees  near  by,  and 
peeped  and  peeped  in  shrill,  high  tones  of  distress;  but 
when  they  finally  realized  what  had  happened,  and 
saw  the  utter  loss  of  all  their  labor,  their  little  home 
destroyed,  they  flew  to  an  elm  a  short  distance  away 
and  gave  vent  to  the  saddest,  most  pitiful  little  sounds 
that  I  think  I  have  ever  heard.  The  beautiful  little 
feathered  creatures  had  lost  their  home,  and  it  meant 
as  much  to  them,  doubtless,  with  what  perceptions  they 
may  have,  as  the  loss  of  our  homes  would  to  us,  with 
our  larger  life.  No  longer  could  they  come  flying  in 
happiness  through  the  leaves  and  peep  over  the  nest  to 
the  speckled  eggs,  and  there  was  no  hope  now  of  a  little 
brood  from  that  nest.  It  was  certainly,  for  them,  a 
tragedy,  and  it  had  been  caused  by  man,  too;  and  per- 
haps that  has  made  them  suspect  man.  And  yet  no 
one  would  have  been  less  likely  or  willing  to  do  such  a 
thing  than  either  of  us.  It  simply  could  not  have  been 
helped.  Well,  after  a  few  minutes  of  mourning,  these 
two  flew  away  together,  and  we  never  saw  them  again. 
We  were  not  quite  certain  as  to  the  kind  of  birds  they 
were,  but  their  coloring,  as  I  recollect  it,  was  much  like 
that  of  the  ordinary  little  chippy,  which,  however, 
usually  builds  its  nest  not  so  high  from  the  ground. 
My  hope  has  always  been  that  they  built  another  nest, 
and  had  four  more  speckled  eggs,  and  finally  had  the 
pleasure  of  bringing  up  four  naked,  scragly  little  young 
ones,  and  T  think  they  did. 

Speaking  of  birds'  eggs,  what  a  passion  it  is  among 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING.      343 

boys  to  collect  them !  It  is  often  overdone,  and  results 
In  cruelty  and  damage  to  the  nests;  but  not  always, 
and  how  It  takes  the  boys  out  into  the  woods  and 
fields !  Indeed,  I  know  of  one  brown-eyed  enthusiast 
who  was  the  possessor  at  one  time  of  some  few  dozen 
varieties  of  birds'  eggs,  gathered  by  long  journeyings 
from  the  woods  and  the  pastures,  and  obtained  by  dint 
of  hard  scrambling  and  climbing — but  obtained,  and 
blown,  and  labeled,  and  arranged  in  a  box;  and  what 
an  interesting  collection  of  the  beautiful  little  spotted 
and  fragile  things  it  was !  How  variously  colored  and 
speckled  they  were,  and  how  we  learned. from  his  box 
of  eggs  of  the  habits  of  the  feathered  tribe;  and  how 
delightful  it  was  to  find  out  what  bird  a  certain  kind 
of  egg  belonged  to !  It  was  one  of  the  beneficent  pro- 
visions of  the  Mosaic  law  that,  if  a  man  must  gather 
birds'  eggs  or  destroy  the  nests,  "thou  shalt  not  take 
the  dam  with  the  young;"  that  is,  so  to  speak,  if  evil 
comes  upon  you,  do  not  let  It  go  too  far!  But  the 
rather  be  kind;  let  not  mercy  give  place  unto  wrath. 
Pain,  be  it  allowed.  Is  more  real  to  us,  more  excru- 
ciating to  our  sensitive  natures,  more  complex  and  more 
intense.  Yet  suffering — and  great  pain — Is  none  the 
less  an  actual  fact  among  animals.  So  far  as  I  have 
been  able  to  observe  it,  pain  with  them  is  not  of  so 
long  duration  as  with  us,  nor  so  keen,  In  proportion 
as  their  blood  differs  from  ours  in  its  consistency.  But 
the  tragedy  of  a  torn  nest  is  no  less  a  tragedy  for  a 
feathered  pair,  simply  because  it  is  of  less  consequence, 
and  happens  to  a  lower  order  of  beings,  than  Is  the 
burning  of  a  handsome  dwelling  for  a  man  and  his 
wife.     We  rebuild  our  homes  and  go  to  the  painful 


344      AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

toil  of  making  the  fireside  over  again;  the  birds  gather 
some  hair  and  bits  of  moss,  and  form  a  new  nest  on 
a  bough.  But  who  shall  say  that  the  fact  of  sorrow 
was  not  as  real,  and  proportionately  as  poignant,  in  the 
one  case  as  in  the  other?  I  know  that  it  is,  for  I  have 
been  among  them,  and  have  seen  their  pitiful  grief: 
and  perhaps,  in  their  brief  sorrow  and  steadfast  facing 
of  the  future,  they  are  wiser  than  we,  who  brood  some- 
times for  years  over  our  misfortunes.  Let  us  not  be- 
little their  grief  because  it  is  little,  and  because  they 
are  little.  "Are  not  two  sparrows  sold  for  a  penny? 
and  not  one  of  them  shall  fall  on  the  ground  without 
your  Father."  Is  that  not  tragedy  which  was  implied 
even  there,  in  that  saying  of  our  Lord's  of  centuries 
ago? 

Sometimes  the  nests  of  birds  are  not  put  together 
very  compactly  or  securely,  and  a  strong  wind  or  a 
storm  may  loose  them  from  their  moorings,  and  either 
dash  them  to  the  ground,  or  so  move  them  from  their 
supporting  network  of  twigs  that  the  eggs  will  roll  and 
fall,  or  that  the  raising  of  a  brood  becomes  a  serious 
matter  and  at  the  least  a  precarious  business.  I  have 
noticed  this  especially  in  the  case  of  the  flimsy  nests  of 
the  turtle  dove,  which  are  little  more  than  a  few  twigs 
massed  together  on  a  bough. 

I  once  found  and  prevented  what  might  have  been 
a  very  terrible  little  tragedy  by  happening  to  notice 
a  robin  acting  rather  singularly  in  the  top  of  a  pear-tree 
in  our  yard.  It  had  been  fluttering  in  the  tree  for  two 
days,  but  I  had  thought  it  was  building  its  nest,  and 
that  its  mate  was  bringing  the  bits  of  straw  for  it  to 
weave.     But  this  day  it  fluttered  and  acted  very  piti- 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING.  345 

fully,  and  I  climbed  the  tree  to  see  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. The  poor  robin  had  a  string,  a  piece  of  stout 
cord,  entangled  all  around  its  feet,  having  evidently 
been  caught  while  trying  to  use  the  string  for  its  little 
home;  and  the  string  was  all  wound  around  and  in 
among  the  twigs  of  the  tree.  It  had  indeed  been  en- 
snared by  the  fowler.  I  broke  the  string,  and  released 
it,  and  it  flew  away  with  its  mate,  who  had  been  flutter- 
ing piteously  by  its  side  while  I  was  there.  If  I  had 
not  freed  it,  it  would  have  died,  because  the  cord  was 
quite  strong,  and  was  doubled  and  twined  about  its 
little  leg  again  and  again,  so  that  it  would  have  been 
impossible  for  it  to  escape,  and  it  would  have  starved 
and  perished  miserably.  As  it  was,  it  had  become  very 
thin  from  lack  of  food,  and  was  almost  exhausted  from 
its  exertions.  It  was  not  able  to  fly  far  when  I  let  it 
go,  but  kept  getting  gradually  closer  to  the  earth  until, 
a  couple  of  rods  away,  it  lit  on  a  pile  of  brush,  steadied 
itself  a  little  rockingly,  looked  at  the  mark  of  white 
string  on  its  leg,  and  settled  itself  for  a  thankful  rest — 
in  freedom  again,  with  its  mate  by  its  side !  Many 
birds  have  not  been  so  fortunate  as  this  one  was,  but 
have  died  a  slow,  lingering  death  in  the  woods.  Mr. 
Burroughs,  I  recollect  especially,  relates  how  a  blue- 
bird was  similiarly  entangled  with  a  horsehair  of  an 
oriole's  nest,  which  it  had  visited;  and  it  was  found 
dead  later,  the  hair  having  in  some  way  become  inex- 
tricably looped  about  it,  and  "was  yet  hanging  in  Sep- 
tember, the  outspread  wings  and  plumage  showing 
nearly  as  bright  as  in  life" — a  pitiful  tragedy. 

Perhaps  the  saddest  thing,  though,  that  I  have  yet 
seen   in   Nature   was   one   of  these  beautiful,   soaring 


346  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

chimney  swallows  that  had  become  transfixed  on  a 
lightning  rod  near  a  chimney.  It  had  doubtless  darted 
down  toward  the  chimney,  and  for  some  reason — either 
because  the  wind  blew  suddenly  or  because  it  did  not 
see  the  rod — had  gone  straight  on  to  the  steel  point. 
It  had  pierced  its  breast  through,  and  there,  alone,  it 
had  died,  with  no  one  to  help  it.  When  I  first  noticed 
It,  it  had  become  nothing  but  skin  and  bones  and  a 
dangling  mass  of  weather-beaten  feathers — dead  long 
ago. 

I  recollect  also  that  some  of  the  boys  set  fire  to 
an  old  dead  stub  one  day,  and,  in  so  doing,  unwittingly 
burnt  up  a  young  family  of  bluebirds  which  had  their 
home  within.  The  cries  and  actions  of  the  old  ones, 
when  they  saw  their  house  in  flames,  were  pitiful  in 
the  extreme.  This,  of  course,  was  accidental,  and,  when 
discovered,  was  too  late  to  rectify.  But  what  shall  we 
say  of  those  other  cases,  so  many  of  which  are  inten- 
tional, in  which  pain  and  tragedy  are  purposely  and 
ruthlessly  inflicted  upon  our  feathered  and  furry 
brothers  by  devilishly  inspired  mankind?  What  do 
you  suppose  the  dog  thinks  of  the  vivisectionist,  any- 
way? 

Birds  seem  to  know  man,  and  sometimes  to  rely  on 
him.  I  have  had  two  bluejays  scream  loudly  and  fly 
within  a  foot  of  my  face,  and  show  terror  and  almost 
ask  for  protection,  when  a  big  cat  happened  to  be  in  a 
tree  near  their  nest.  He  knew  where  it  was,  and  that 
there  were  young  ones  in  it,  and  he  was  making  for 
the  nest.  I  went  to  the  tree  and  scared  him  down,  and 
as  he  scuttled  away  the  jays  darted  at  him  and  followed 
him  awhile,   and  then  came  back  to  their  little  home 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERINC .  347 

and  flitted  about,  silent  again,  in  perfect  peace  and 
security.  Now  I  think  they  asked  me  to  do  that.  To 
one  who  is  sympathetically  disposed  toward  animals 
there  is  frequently  a  very  close  relationship,  almost  an 
understanding,  between  them.  A  pair  of  wood  thrushes 
used  regularly  to  build  their  nest  in  our  yard,  sometimes 
in  a  maple,  sometimes  in  a  pear  or  an  apple  tree,  and 
the  male  would  select  the  wildest  and  most  picturesque 
little  spots  in  the  yard,  and  there  he  would  sit  at  twi- 
light— in  the  leafy  branches  of  an  elm,  say,  near  the 
nest — and  sing  away  his  wildwood  love-song.  They 
became  accustomed  to  my  presence  and  seemed  to  like 
me,  and  used  sometimes  to  approach  warily  till  within 
a  foot  of  me,  as  I  sat  on  the  bench  and  read.  One  day 
in  particular  I  remember,  when  in  a  chair  on  the  porch, 
that  one  of  the  pair  came  flying  toward  me,  intending 
(as  I  supposed)  to  alight  on  my  shoulder;  but  I  was 
startled  (not  seeing  it  in  time)  and  waved  it  away, 
though  even  then  it  remained  perched  on  the  railing 
beside  me  for  a  moment.  I  think  that  the  quiet  spotted 
wood  thrush  is  my  favorite  bird.  A  farmer  one  day, 
in  speaking  of  the  birds  in  his  locality,  said  to  me, 
"There  is  one  bird  that  comes  a  little  later  than  the 
others  in  the  spring,  and  likes  the  little  thickets,  and 
sings  there  almost  like  a  flute.  I  wonder  what  it  is." 
I  listened  one  day  in  the  place  he  had  told  me,  and 
soon,  as  I  waited,  floating  out  on  the  air  came  the  notes 
of  the  bird.     It  was  the  song  of  the  wood  thrush. 

I  once  found  a  song  sparrow  covered  with  warts, 
or  excrescences  of  some  sort,  which  a  dozen  others  were 
pursuing  and  trying  to  kill.  They  pecked  it  and  pecked 
it,  as  it  made  its  way  along  with  drooping  wings,  but 


348  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD 

I  finally  captured  it,  and  scared  the  others  away.  I  took 
it  home  and  we  tried  to  help  it,  but  I  finally  killed  it, 
after  we  found  it  could  not  be  cured.  Its  wings  and 
its  head  and  beak  were  covered  with  these  singular 
bumps.  I  have  seen  hogs  try  to  kill  one  among  them 
that  was  sick,  gouging  it  and  gouging  it,  as  if  to  get  it 
out  of  the  way  and  end  its  misery;  and  other  animals, 
I  am  told,  do  the  same  when  one  of  their  number  be- 
comes helpless. 

Walking  along  one  day,  I  discovered  a  locust  with 
one  wing  off,  clumsily  flopping  about  on  the  planks. 
He  tried  to  fly,  but  could  n't,  and  finally  crawled  over 
to  a  beech,  and  made  his  way  up  again  to  the  life  of 
the  branches,  his  old  life,  where  he  might  die.  I  have 
been  much  interested  in  locusts.  They  have  many  ene- 
mies; birds  devour  them,  and  I  have  seen  many  a  one 
flying  with  a  sizzling  locust  in  its  beak;  cats  and  even 
ants  also  will  eat  them.  I  was  quite  surprised  one  time 
at  the  actions  of  one  which  had  just  come  out  of  the 
ground  in  its  pupa  state,  before  shedding  its  shell.  I 
noticed  it  in  a  rather  conspicuous  place  on  a  walk,  and, 
fearing  that  it  might  be  crushed  by  the  passers-by,  I 
picked  it  up  and  placed  it  at  the  foot  of  a  little  maple. 
It  was  amusing,  the  avidity  with  which  it  took  the  hint 
and  began  slowly  to  climb  the  tree  in  its  unwieldy  armor 
(what  a  bother  it  must  be  to  be  a  chrysalis,  anyway!), 
as  if  having  come  upon — a  little  suddenly,  and  by  some 
greater  providence  than  his  own — the  very  goal  which 
he  had  all  along  been  seeking,  and  been  seeing  through 
his  glassy,  scaly  eyes. 

There  are,  of  course,  many  other  tragedies  in  Na- 
ture.    One  life  feeds  upon  another,  even  if  that  other 


THE  PROBLExM  OF  SUFFERING.  349 

must  be  taken  by  pain  and  violence.  The  whole  cre- 
ation seems  to  be  preying  upon  itself.  Tragedy  is  the 
present  law  of  growth,  even  of  life.  The  very  words 
themselves — hawks,  owls,  weasels,  skunks,  wolves, 
dogs,  panthers,  etc. — bring  up  a  host  of  bloody  images 
and  murders.  You  have  simply  to  watch  the  barnyard 
fowls  in  their  excursions  about  the  farm  to  see  tragedy 
on  a  large  scale  among  the  insects  and  reptiles.  Nor 
does  it  stop  simply  with  one  instance.  The  weasel  sucks 
the  blood  of  the  chicken,  the  hen  gobbles  down  a  grass- 
hopper or  a  frog,  and  so  on,  so  far  as  I  know,  ad  in- 
finitum.   Savagery  has  apparently  been  very  contagious. 

I  have  often  disturbed  mice  in  shocks  of  fodder  or 
in  wood-piles.  Farmers  frequently  plow  up  young  rab- 
bits and  mice  and  moles,  and  find  nests  of  quails'  eggs 
or  those  of  prairie  chickens  when  mowing.  Cattle  are 
continually  trampling  down  nests  when  brushing 
through  briars  and  bushes.  I  am  constantly  reminded 
of  Burns's  poems  "To  a  Mouse"  and  "To  a  Mountain 
Daisy."  Readers  of  Thomas  Hardy  will  remember  his 
touching  description,  in  "Jude  the  Obscure,"  of  the 
wounded  rabbit  crying  in  the  snare.  Burns,  again, 
reveals  his  sympathetic  nature  in  his  poem  "On  Seeing 
a  Wounded  Hare  Limp  by  Me."  Sometimes  a  snake 
is  cut  all  to  pieces  on  the  meadow,  and  I  have  seen  a 
dog  who,  in  the  exhilaration  and  joy  of  life  in  the  fields 
and  grass,  had  bounded  in  front  of  the  mower  and  had 
his  legs  cut  off  and  mangled.  We  had  to  kill  him 
aftenvards,  and  it  seemed  as  If  he  understood  what  the 
old  rifle  was  for,  from  the  look  In  his  eyes. 

I  remember  once  finding  a  little  puppy  which  had 
been  lost  in  the  woods.     I  had  heard  his  cries,  and  had 


350  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

thought  he  hp.d  been  poisoned  or  was  hurt,  and  went 
to  help  him.  I  followed  his  pitiful  sounds,  and  found 
him  alone  in  the  most  desolate  part  of  the  woods.  He 
had  evidently  been  left  there  by  some  man  to  die,  and 
had  been  there  now  alone  for  some  days.  The  starv- 
ation and  thirst  had  caused  him  apparently  to  become 
insane,  so  that  he  seemed  not  even  to  be  conscious  of 
my  presence.  I  brought  him  home,  and  on  the  way  he 
was  taken  with  a  kind  of  fit,  and  cast  up  green  pieces 
of  weeds  and  grass,  which  he  had  eaten  out  there  in 
his  fever.  We  fed  him  on  milk  and  bread,  and  he  ate 
it  so  eagerly.  But  the  next  day  he  was  taken  again, 
and  immediately  the  old  wild  look  came  into  his  eyes, 
and  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  woods,  and  we  heard 
his  strange  cries  once  more.  I  took  the  rifle,  and  found 
him  again  wandering  and  moaning  in  his  insanity.  He 
did  not  notice  my  presence  any  more  than  that  of  a 
stump,  but  finally,  when  I  poked  at  him  with  my  gun 
barrel,  a  gleam  of  remembrance  seemed  to  come  into 
his  eyes  for  an  instant,  and  he  came  up  to  me  and 
wagged  his  tail — only  to  relapse  again  into  his  insane 
life.  And  then  I  killed  him.  And  as  I  watched  him — 
his  life-blood  trickling,  the  great  ragged  wound,  the 
convulsive  gaspings,  and  final  stiffening — out  there 
alone  in  the  woods  bending  over  his  frail  little  body, 
1  felt  that  I  was  being  taught  anew  of  the  terrible  but 
sublime  mystery  of  death.  His  was  the  same  death 
that  you  and  I  are  to  know,  and  his  red  blood  had 
meant  as  much  to  his  brief  life  as  yours  and  mine  does 
to  ours.  He  had  done  me  no  harm,  but  I  felt  that  in 
his  case  to  shoot  him  was  one  of  those  things  that  we 
might  call  a  mercy.  Poor  little  fellow !  He  had  very 
beautiful  eyes. 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING. 


351 


Is  not  insanity  counted  a  terrible  thing  with  us? 
Was  not  his  insanity  also  a  tragedy?  He  might  have 
spent  life  happily  among  the  woods,  sniffing  the  leaves 
for  the  trail;  instead,  he  wandered  back  to  the  forest, 
instinctively,  as  to  his  home,  his  intelligence  lost,  crazed 
by  the  pain  which  his  masters,  in  their  cruelty,  had 
brought  upon  him.  Equally  with  us,  I  say  unfulfilled 
life  for  any  creature  is  a  tragedy,  and  I  do  not  know 
of  the  remedy  in  this  world. 

The  most  heartless  crime  that  I  think  a  man  can 
perpetrate  upon  a  fellow  mortal  is  to  feed  a  dog  upon 
ground  glass.  This  causes  a  most  horrible  and  painful 
and  lingering  death.  We  once  had  a  fine,  intelligent 
shepherd  dog  who  was  killed  by  that  method,  having 
in  some  way  incurred  the  hatred  of  some  lover  of 
wickedness.  He  was  in  the  woods  two  days  before  we 
learned  v/here  he  was,  and  there  I  found  him,  half 
dead,  and  with  his  hind  legs  paralyzed.  He  still  recog- 
nized me,  but  he  was  dying.  His  cries,  as  he  lay 
stretched  upon  the  leaves,  still  linger  in  my  ears.  Now 
how  did  pain  serve  to  him  as  a  ministry  of  discipline? 
Was  it  not  a  supremely  heartless  tragedy? 

I  am  amused  at  the  sheep  ("the  silly  sheep"),  and 
at  their  lambs,  as  they  go  rollicking  about.  Yet  even 
sheep  have  their  tragedies;  and  I  suppose  the  culmi- 
nating tragedy  of  their  lives,  to  them,  is  when  they  are 
driven  away  down  the  dusty  turnpike  to  the  slaughter 
pen  by  the  very  shepherd  who  has  fed  and  cared  for 
them.  One  instance  especially  I  shall  always  remember. 
It  was  lambing  time,  and  we  had  been  with  the  ewes. 
One  of  them  lay  in  evident  misery,  and  we  went  to  her. 
She  had  suffered  great  pain,  and  had  hoped  to  nourish 

23 


352  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

her  offspring;  but  she  turned  about  her  great  mother 
eyes  toward  it,  only  to  be  disappointed  and  heartbroken. 
Her  lamb  had  been  born  dead. 

Thoreau,  in  his  journal  ("Winter,"  February  5, 
1854),  once  jotted  down  a  few  thoughts  upon  a  musk- 
rat  which  are  worth  reading: 

"Shall  we  not  have  sympathy  with  the  muskrat,  which 
gnaws  its  third  leg  off,  not  as  pitying  its  suffering,  but  through 
our  kindred  mortality,  appreciating  its  majestic  pains  and  its 
heroic  virtue?  Are  we  not  made  its  brothers  by  fate?  F6r 
whom  are  psalms  sung  and  mass  said,  if  not  for  such  worthies 
as  these?  When  I  hear  the  church  organ  peal,  or  feel  the 
trembling  tones  of  the  bass-viol,  I  see  in  imagination  the  musk- 
rat  gnawing  off  his  leg.  I  offer  up  a  note  that  his  affliction 
may  be  sanctified  to  each  and  all  of  us.  .  .  .  When  I  think  of 
the  tragedies  which  are  constantly  permitted  in  the  course  of  all 
animal  life,  they  make  the  plaintive  strain  of  the  universal  harp 
which  elevates  us  above  the  trivial.  .  .  .  Even  as  the 
worthies  of  mankind  are  said  to  recommend  human  life  by 
having  lived  it,  so  I  could  not  spare  the  example  of  the  muskrat." 

Dr.  W.  C.  Gray,  in  a  paper  upon  "The  Tragedies 
in  Nature,"  in  his  "Musings  by  Camp-fire  and  Way- 
side," has  also  written  of  the  existence  of  pain  in  the 
animal  creation — the  owl  pursuing  the  duck,  the  hawk 
after  the  pigeon,  the  wolves  in  chase  of  the  doe — but 
sees  in  these  a  benign  intention  and,  after  all,  an  allevi- 
ation. This  is  often  very  beautifully  true,  and  the  evil 
of  pain  then  ceases  in  its  own  existence. 

I  hate  to  take  the  life  of  a  fellow  creature;  yet  I 
have.  And  the  dripping,  sputtering  blood,  the  eyes 
still  beautiful,  have  wrung  my  heart,  while,  neverthe- 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING. 


353 


less,  I  still  went  on  in  the  triumph  of  sport.  I  am  not 
inclined,  however,  to  think  that  hunting  and  trapping, 
are  an  unmixed  evil.  Both,  it  is  true,  cause  pain  to  the 
animals  hit  and  caught;  and  yet,  even  then,  these  same 
animals  die  more  quickly  and  with  less  suffering  than 
in  the  lingering  way  of  Nature.  I  shall  not  greatly 
encourage  these  pastimes,  though  I  used  to  love  them 
and  still  do,  and  think  they  are  beneficial  in  more  than 
one  way.  But  shall  we  not,  in  every  way  we  can,  as 
our  better  instincts  prompt  and  guide  us,  seek  to  lessen 
and  to  alleviate  the  misery,  wherever  found,  in  this  our 
common  life,  and  thus  play  the  part  of  kindness  in  our 
world  in  a  mission  of  mercy  to  our  fellows  of  the  wild? 
We  can  at  least  do  that. 

I  acknowledge  that  the  position  of  the  vegetarians 
is  impregnable.  It  is  true  that  the  Lord,  at  the  cre- 
ation, said  that  the  herb  of  the  field  and  the  fruit  of 
the  trees  were  to  be  as  meat  for  our  forefathers;  that 
it  is  only  after  the  fall  that  we  find  man  sacrificing  the 
firstlings  of  his  flock;  and  that  it  was  not  until  past  the 
flood  that  the  Lord  openly  sanctioned  to  Noah  the  eat- 
ing of  flesh.  Yet,  and  notwithstanding,  I  find  myself, 
along  with  millions  of  other  human  beings,  so  com- 
pletely transformed  by  the  heredity  of  the  ages  that, 
if  I  find  I  can  get  hold  of  a  good  piece  of  beefsteak 
or  some  other  savory  meat,  and  am  hungry  after  a  day's 
hard  labor — ^well,  I  am  simply  going  to  eat  it!  Tend- 
encies can  not  be  overcome  in  a  day.  That  is — to  com- 
plete my  little  allegory — evil  has  become  so  insistent, 
so  paramount,  so  preponderant,  so  much  of  a  "second 
nature,"  as  we  say,  in  life  that,  do  what  we  will,  we  can 
not  escape  it.     Henceforth,  after  the  fall,  pain — and 


354  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

the  infliction  of  it — was  to  become  the  lot  of  wander- 
ing man. 

But  let  us  recur  to  the  problem ;  and,  to  borrow  the 
words  of  Mr.  Le  Gallienne,  in  his  treatise  on  pain  in 
"The  Religion  of  a  Literary  Man,"  it  is  "the  imme- 
morial problem  of  the  meaning  of  evil,  the  mystery  of 
pain,  the  crux  of  theology,  the  darkest  mystery  of  life." 
We  have  seen  that  we  are  perpetually  confronted  anew 
with  the  pressure  of  irresistible,  overwhelming  evil, 
with  all  its  lowering,  baneful,  malevolent,  pernicious 
effects,  and  with  sorrow,  sadness,  woe,  distress,  agony, 
grief,  misery,  inequality,  crime,  disease — in  a  word, 
pain — as  the  fruit  of  experience.  Pain  does  not  pre- 
sent itself  to  the  eyes  of  most  men  so  much  as  a  philo- 
sophic mystery  as  it  does  as  an  unavoidable  fact.  "We 
are  confronted  by  a  condition,  not  a  theory."  And 
yet  a  little  as  to  the  theory.  Whence  all  this  pain  that 
is  so  universal?    And  why? 

Now  I  do  not  say  that  joy  is  any  less  a  mystery, 
or  any  less  universal,  than  pain.  I  am  confining  myself 
in  this  paper  strictly  to  the  question  of  the  relation  of 
Nature  to  the  experience  of  suffering.  The  presence 
of  joy  is  quite  another  matter.  Nature  offers,  to  all 
living  beings,  an  alleviation  in  constant  presentations 
of  what  Walter  Pater  calls  "the  intricate  omnipres- 
ence of  beauty"  (which  in  itself  is  indeed  a  sign  of 
promise),  and  in  the  manifold  possibilities  of  the  en- 
joyment of  their  natures  in  the  exercise  of  play,  the 
sense  of  humor,  the  pleasures  of  discovery,  and  in  many 
ways  other  than  the  paths  of  pain.  There  are  laws 
other  than  the  law  of  tooth  and  claw.  But  it  is  rather 
a  utilitarian  view  of  life  which  would  say,  "Let  us  seek. 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING.  355 

pain,  because  of  the  pleasure  that  cometh  in  self-sacri- 
fice." Martyrdom,  of  course,  has  always  been  a  most 
heroic  feature  of  human  life;  and  yet  who  will  dare  to 
affirm  that  the  pages  of  history  would  not  be  the 
brighter  without  it?  Martyrdom,  indeed,  is  one  of 
the  darkest  blots  upon  civilization.  Let  us  confront 
pain  bravely,  if  necessary;  but  let  us  not  think  ourselves 
cowards  if  we  avoid  it.  We  were  created  to  live  hap- 
pily ;  and  Whitman  was  not  so  far  wrong  when  he  told 
us  to  seek  Happiness  and  to  diffuse  it.  Yet  shall  we  all 
have  to  meet  pain,  nevertheless.  The  way  of  the  cross, 
as  Thomas  a  Kempis  so  profoundly  said,  is  "the  royal 
way." 

But  why,  after  all,  should  not  man  and  Nature  live 
without  pain?  Why  should  we  be  compelled  to  con- 
front the  spectacle  of  blasted  lives,  unfulfilled  natures, 
premature  death  in  the  midst  of  usefulness  and  joy  in 
one's  labor?  Why  should  Lincoln  and  McKinley  have 
to  die  by  the  assassin?  Why  could  not  Lincoln  have 
lived  to  enact  his  policy  of  reconstruction,  and  McKin- 
ley his  of  reciprocity?  There  were  lessons  brought 
home  to  the  American  people  by  their  deaths  that  per- 
haps could  not  have  been  accomplished  so  well  in  any 
other  way;  and  we  have  taken  the  lessons  to  ourselves, 
that  they  died  that  we  might  live.  But  what  shall  we 
say  of  the  innumerable  tragedies  all  over  the  world, 
except  that  by  these,  too,  is  brought  home  to  us  merely 
the  ever-recurring  problem  of  our  destiny?  Those  who 
die  thus,  while  not  realizing  as  perhaps  they  might  the 
fullness  of  their  powers,  yet  have  their  individual  loss, 
the  evil  of  their  personal  sacrifice,  translated  into  terms 
of  beneficence  for  the  rest  of  mankind.     But  what  of 


356  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

the  individuals  themselves?  How  else  lies  their  recom- 
pense? And  shall  we  say  also  of  the  world  of  the 
lower  animals  and  the  rest  of  Nature  that  their  pain  is, 
too,  but  a  vicarious  suffering?  To  say  that  sorrow 
brings  with  it  a  greater  good  than  would,  or  could, 
exist  without  it  is  all  well  enough  as  a  theory,  and  may 
be  true  in  some  cases,  but  I  can  not  accept  it  as  a  uni- 
versal fact,  applicable  alike  to  all  individuals.  No,  I 
find  life  otherwise.  I  am  confronted  with  the  evidences 
of  genuine  and  implacable  suffering  In  all  the  world  of 
Nature.  I  simply  have  bravely  to  admit  its  existence, 
and  to  acknowledge  that  the  presence  of  pain  in  the  uni- 
verse is  an  ineffaceable  reality  and  an  ever-returning, 
baffling  mystery — in  itself  a  source  of  pain. 

James  Hinton's  book,  "The  Mystery  of  Pain,"  has 
been  of  much  help  to  me.  It  is,  indeed,  "a  book  for 
the  sorrowful."  His  argument  seems  to  me  at  times 
to  be  somewhat  vitiated  by  his  apparent  refusal  to  rec- 
ognize the  absolute  reality  of  pain  In  an  attempt  to  ex- 
plain it  away  by  showing  that  individual  good  comes 
from  it,  which  Is  by  no  means  universally  the  case.  In 
the  life  that  now  Is.  The  joy  of  sacrifice  may  under 
the  circumstances  be  In  many  Instances  the  best  possible 
compensation  for  the  undergoing  of  pain  (and  It  is 
surely  In  that  spirit  that,  when  necessary,  we  should 
meet  it),  but  It  Is  not  a  substitute  for  the  happiness  of 
innocence;  the  sting  remains,  and  the  memory  of  evil. 
Schopenhauer  was  right  at  least  In  this,  that  he  recog- 
nized the  undeniable  reality  of  evil  as  evil,  and  had  per- 
haps more  than  any  other  philosopher  an  insight  into 
its  nature. 

The  only  adequate  explanation  that  I  have  to  offer 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING.  357 

of  the  existence  of  suffering  among  the  lower  animals, 
as  well  as  with  men,  and,  consequently,  of  the  deeper 
problem  of  the  origin  and  solution  of  evil,  is  that  sug- 
gested in  the  Scriptures — in  the  Book  of  Job,  for  ex- 
ample— that  there  is  in  very  truth  a  spiritual  conflict  in 
the  universe  between  the  forces  (shall  we  say?)  of 
good  and  evil,  and  that  pain,  not  only  with  us  but  with 
the  rest  of  creation,  is,  and  has  ever  been,  perpetrated 
(in  theological  terminology)  by  our  common  Adver- 
sary. The  Lord  God  brings  his  aims  to  naught  by 
the  fruition  of  love,  longsuftering,  peace,  and  gentle- 
ness ;  but  the  evil  was  there,  and  it  was  evil,  and  we  have 
suffered  pain,  and  I  do  not  say  that  we  could  not  have 
had  the  higher  life  without  it.  There  seems  to  have 
been  (all  things  point  to  it,  in  my  mind)  a  considerable 
catastrophe  at  some  time  in  the  history  of  the  human 
race,  the  effects  of  which  extend  even  now  unto  .all 
Nature.  Man  fell;  and  we  have  no  record  that  he 
was  unhappy  before  the  fall.  Sin  is  the  transgression 
of  the  law;  and  with  sin  has  come  pain,  perhaps  only 
to  be  eliminated  when  we  shall  have  learned,  through 
the  long  schooling  of  the  centuries,  so  to  conform  our 
lives  to  the  indwelling  of  His  presence  that  evil  shall 
no  longer  be  amongst  us. 

The  supremacy  of  evil,  however,  can  be  but  a  tem- 
poral triumph.  Pain  is  not  an  irremediable  state  of 
affairs.  No  one  who  has  faith  can  believe  that.  Every 
one  who  holds  serene  any  scrap  of  confidence  that,  after 
all,  the  world  was  not  made  to  be  a  failure  must  believe, 
with  Tennyson,  that,  though  the  vision  is  blinded  from 
us  by  the  veil,  yet  "somehow  good  will  be  the  final  goal 
of  ill,"  and  that  in  permitting  evil  it  has  not  been  the 


358  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

intention  to  condone  it;  but  it  has  been  permitted — 
shall  we  say,  in  a  paradox? — that  it  might  eventually 
and  forever  be  annihilated.  1  do  not  say  what  the 
process  shall  be;  but  influences,  however  subtle,  are 
real,  and  the  very  effects  of  evil  may  be  ultimately  to 
rid  us  of  it.  Yet  the  final  triumph  of  good  must  be, 
not  from  any  development  of  evil  itself,  but  in  its  abso- 
lute suppression  and  destruction,  when  God  shall  be 
"all  in  all." 

So,  sings  Tennyson,   in  his  "In  Memoriam:" 

"O  yet  I  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  Nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood ; 

"That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed. 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

"That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivel'd  in  a  fruitless  fire. 
Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

"Behold,  we  know  not  anything; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last — far  off — at  last,  to  all, 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring." 

Man  fell ;  but  we  are  told  there  is  to  be  a  restora- 
tion to  another  Paradise,  when  God  shall  walk  among 
men  again,  and  be  their  God.  It  is  none  of  our  doing. 
"God  so  loved  the  world."  Now  I  refuse  to  separate 
man  from  the  rest  of  Nature,  to  elevate  him  on  a 
superior  pedestal,  and  to  alienate  these,  our  brethren  of 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING.  359 

the  fields;  and  I  believe  that  the  promises  are  applicable 
to  them  also.  For  evil  came  not  from  Nature  as  she 
fell  created  from  the  hand  of  God.  Behold,  every- 
thing was  very  good !  The  thorn  is  concealed  beneath 
the  rose,  but  the  rose  itself  is  beautiful.  Evil  came 
from  the  Tempter.  I  want  to  see  the  devil  recognized 
as  responsible  for  some  of  the  evil  that  is  in  me  and  the 
rest  of  creation.  Nature  assumes  her  various  forms 
of  life — and  lo!  comes  "the  Fall,"  as  we  call  it  (man's 
fall),  and  enters  into  them.  Man  thus  is  not  the  only 
being  that  suffers  ("the  whole  creation  groaneth  and 
travaileth  in  pain  together"),  nor  is  it  to  man  alone 
(surely!)  that  the  promises  are  given.  For  if  there  be 
no  recompense  for  undeserved  loss  in  the  animal  world, 
then  is  there  no  justice,  and  life  becomes  hopelessly 
and  forever  an  inscrutable  mystery,  and  the  understand- 
ing itself  becomes  darkened.  But  with  this  view  of  an 
ultimate  release  from  pain  in  some  final  restitution  all 
becomes  clear  and  hopeful  that  otherwise  is  but  a  sad 
despair.  We  may  not  see  it  in  our  time,  but  that  the 
light  will  come  who  can  doubt?  Said  Thoreau,  at  the 
close  of  his  "Walden:"  "There  is  more  day  to  dawn. 
The  sun  is  but  a  morning  star." 

He  is  a  profound  thinker,  Mr.  Henry  Mills  Alden, 
who  in  his  "God  in  His  World"  has  expressed  my 
thought  in  this  way: 

"If  we  know  not  what  we  shall  be,  neither  do  we  know 
what  Nature  shall  be,  in  her  on-going  from  strength  unto 
strength.  There  is  no  antagonism  between  the  Natural  and 
the  Spiritual.  Humanity  has  been  bound  up  with  Nature 
from  the  beginning,  and,  through  the  Incarnation,  this  bond 
has  become  a  sacrament.     If  we  are  to  suppose  that  any  change 


360  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

has  passed  upon  what  we  call  the  material  world,  in  conse- 
quence of  or  in  sympathy  with  man's  errors,  it  has  not,  as  we 
have  seen,  been  such  as  to  effect  the  correspondence  of  its  mean- 
ings, spiritually  interpreted,  with  those  of  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  as  revealed  by  our  Lord ;  and,  if  there  has  been  any 
change  due  to  the  perversion  of  human  life,  then  may  we  expect 
that  Nature  will  in  like  manner  respond  unto  the  renewals 
of  our  life." 

Then,  too,  even  in  this  life,  Nature  comes  as  a  con- 
solation in  the  very  face  of  evil,  and  her  wildness  and 
reserve,  her  buoyancy  and  free  life,  her  variety  and 
constant  surprises,  are  the  springs  of  hope  and  joy  to 
all  earth's  myriads  of  inhabitants;  while  in  her  deeper 
significance  men  learn  of  the  truths  of  tenderness,  of 
beauty,  of  mystery,  and  of  far-away  infinity,  the  flute- 
notes  from  wood  and  meadow  Interacting  with  the 
breezes  among  the  trees  and  the  greenness  and  the  blue 
sky  and  the  rippling  water,  to  form  one  world-wide 
harmony,  and  to  make  existence  a  dream  and  a  fore- 
taste of  Immortality.  The  most  beautiful  music  seems 
perfectly  In  attune  with  Nature,  from  the  concerts  of 
an  orchestra  to  the  simplest  notes  of  the  flageolet.  The 
coy  wood-ways  of  bird,  beast,  and  flower — what  a 
world  we  have ! 

Instead  of  a  totally  supernaturalistic  creed  shall  we 
not  add  to  the  statement  of  our  beliefs  this  aflirmatlon: 
/  believe  in  Nature!  "I  believe  In  the  forest,"  said 
Thoreau,  speaking  of  the  necessity  of  wildness  in  our 
lives  and  literature,  "and  In  the  meadows,  and  in  the 
night  In  which  the  corn  grows."  That  was  part  of  his 
creed,  and  his  religion.     Oh,  yes !  the  world  is  full  of 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  SUFFERING.      36 1 

suffering,  even  the  birds  and  the  wild  doe.  But  Nature 
has  not  therefore  altogether  been  depraved,  because  of 
pain,  caused,  according  to  tradition,  by  the  entrance  of 
a  spirit  alien  to  our  world.  Can  we  not  interpret  the 
facts  of  Nature  poetically,  and  shall  we  not  find  in  them 
spiritualizing  influences  instead  of  the  mere  brute 
forces?  I  think  we  can.  I  think  we  do.  For,  whether 
we  will  it  or  no,  it  is  in  the  world  that  we  live,  and  it 
is  from  the  world  that  we  derive  most  of  the  qualities 
of  our  better  selves. 

Pain  thus,  we  may  say,  after  all,  should  become  an 
encouragement.  It  should  be  the  constant  reminder 
that  our  liberation  Is  not  so  far  distant;  is,  indeed, 
growing  nearer  day  by  day.  And,  if  we  have  known 
happiness  even  when  evil  has  been  about  us,  surely, 
then,  when  pain  shall  have  been  banished,  shall  we  es- 
cape from  the  beclouded  understanding  of  this  life  into 
the  blessedness  of  perfect  peace,  taking  with  us  the 
things  that  we  love,  and  leaving  behind  forever  the 
things  that  have  marred  our  progress. 

Isaiah  prophesies  of  the  reign  of  righteousness  in  a 
beautiful  passage  (Isaiah  xi,  6-9),  which,  while  figu- 
rative, may  perhaps  some  day  also  (let  us  hope)  see 
some  sort  of  a  literal  fulfillment: 

"And  the  wolf  shall  dwell  with  the  lamb,  and  the  leopard 
shall  lie  down  with  the  kid;  and  the  calf  and  the  young  Hon 
and  the  fatling  together;  and  a  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

And,  again,  among  the  passages  in  the  Bible  that 
are  the  most  stately,  and  that  I  hold  closest  to  heart, 
are  two  others  also,  the  one  from  Paul  to  the  Romans 


362  AROUND  AN  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

and  the  other  from  the  concluding  vision  of  the  Reve- 
lation.    Says  the  Apostle  (Romans  viii,  18-23)  : 

"For  I  reckon  that  the  sufferings  of  this  present  time  are 
not  worthy  to  be  compared  with  the  glory  which  shall  be  re- 
vealed to  US-ward.  .  .  .  For  we  know  that  the  whole  creation 
groaneth  and  travaileth  in  pain  together  until  now.  And  not 
only  so,  but  ourselves  also,  who  have  the  first-fruits  of  the 
Spirit^  even  we  ourselves  groan  within  ourselves,  waiting  for 
the  adoption,  to  wit,  the  redemption  of  our  body." 

Says  John,  In  his  rhapsody,  of  the  City  of  God  (Reve- 
lation xxl,  3,  4)  : 

"Behold,  the  tabernacle  of  God  is  with  men,  and  He  shall 
dwell  with  them,  and  they  shall  be  His  peoples,  and  God  Him- 
self shall  be  with  them,  and  be  their  God :  and  He  shall  wipe 
away  everj'  tear  from  their  eyes ;  and  death  shall  be  no  more ; 
neither  shall  there  be  mourning,  nor  crying,  nor  pain,  any 
more:    the  first  things  are  passed  away." 

And  we  may  believe  that  the  beasts  of  the  field,  and 
the  fowls  of  the  air,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  loved  life 
of  Earth,  will  not  be  forgotten  in  the  realization  of 
such  a  Consummation. 


THE  WOOD  THRUSH :   A  Sonnet. 


The  shy  wood  thrush,  concealed  amid  the  trees, 
Pours  forth  his  even-song  unto  his  mate : 
She,  seated  on  the  nest,  alone  in  the  late 

Spring  day.     With  her  bright  look  she,  peering,  sees 

His  joy.     His  woodland  strains  swell  on  the  breeze, 
And  trill,  and  plead,  and  not  a  tone  abate. 
In  accents  sweet;  his  liquid  eyes  dilate; 

The  bubbling  notes  strike  tinklingly  like  keys 
Together,  or,  like  drops  of  water,  fall  ; 

His  spotted  breast  heaves,  and  sends  from  his  throat 

Rare  native  music,  lays  to  her  devote. 
In  his  clear,  flute-like,  warbling  call : — 

And  from  these  depths,  his  green-leaved  habitude, 

It  ceases. — Then  the  twilight  solitude. 


iFnr  tl|0  tttnnhrntta  brautg  auJj  mgatrrg  of  ltgl|t;  far  lift 
atara  ani  tl|f  matpatg  of  ntgljt;  for  ifto-aprinklrii,  bapplrb 
mormnga  an5  goliipn-atrrakph,  aloto-bging  aunarta;  for  lift 
blur  akg  anb  ita  ratn-rrfrraljtng  rlouba;  for  flomrra,  birha, 
anb  trrra;  for  anomflakra  nnh  ttjr  Ijrartij-aiJJr ;  for  tt|r  frllom- 
aliip  of  antmala,  ani  for  mg  own  Itfr: — for  tl|rar,  Horb,  31 
tijank  ullrrr-  ICtft  mr  tI|rougI|  tl^rm  abow  atn  unto  tl|r  ron- 
trmplatton  of  tijp  brat,  forgtur  mg  fratltjj,  anb  finally  rrrritt? 
mr  into  (Ei^rtat'a  rrirmptton.    Amrn. 


'  Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ?     Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ? 
Here  feel  we  not  the  penalty  of  Adam. 
The  seasons'  difference, — as  the  icy  fang 
And  churlish  biting  of  the  winter's  wind, 
Which,  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile  and  say 
'  This  is  no  flattery  '—these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 

And  this,  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt. 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything. 
I  would  not  change  it." 

— Js  You  Like  It. 


DATE  DUE 

CAVLORO 

PIIINTaOINU    S   A 

Huston,  Paul  Griswold. 
Around  an  old  homestead  t 


'W^ 


III 


A  000  657  397  6 


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